Home Front
by fyre
Summary: Blair talking to imaginary friends? Jim, an expectant father? Jack didn't "Just Say No?" All this and delusions of wanton property destruction. Sequel to Broken Soldiers. AU. Crossover


HOME FRONT  
  
FEEDBACK: a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com  
  
ARCHIVE: Guide Posts. Cascade Library. Everyone else please ask.  
  
TEASER: Blair talking to imaginary friends? Jim, an expectant father? Jack didn't "Just Say  
No?" All this and delusions of wanton property destruction. Sequel to BROKEN SOLDIERS.  
  
TIME LINE/CATEGORY: Alternate Universe. Canon? What Canon? Part 4 of a longer series.   
Crossover with Stargate SG-1.  
  
RATING: PG-13ish. Swearing. Minor violence.  
  
DISCLAIMER: No major plot-lines, characters, setting, or major events alluded to in this story  
are mine in any way. PetFly, Paramount, and UPN own these guys. Stargate SG-1 and its  
characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double  
Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. Some of the dialogue is pulled straight from the TV  
show for the sake of continuity and is thus logically NOT mine. No money is being made off this  
story. Please ask the author before reproducing or posting anywhere else.  
  
SPECIAL THANKS TO: Martha Wells Wilson for being a gracious beta reader. Without her  
grammar and spelling wisdom this story would be a big mess. Thanks Martha! ;) Errors that exist  
in this document are my fault not hers, cause of my own last second revisions! Thanks to Becky  
and her episode transcripts located on her fantastic website. Without them, this series would not  
have been possible. I also want to thank all of you who e-mailed me for your comments; please  
know that they do, in some part, influence the tone of following stories.  
  
NOTES: A majority of people e-mailed me and said they did not want the Major Crimes  
companion story. They just want more Jim and Blair. I can take a hint. ;)  
  
As for the dissertation/doctorate stuff in this story-- I've done some research about the subject   
on-line. I have found that various university programs have their own processes so I shall use  
what I have discovered on university Internet sites in a manner that best fits the plot and tone of  
this story.   
  
The Quechua used in this story is taken from sources online since the Quechua/English dictionary  
I wanted by intra-library loan was in Florida. I live in Alaska. If I have made a mistake I  
apologize for my lack of knowledge of this beautiful language.  
  
Murder 101 is once again mixed in heavily with this story, but I am changing things slightly so  
don't yell if things are off; this is AU remember? I read the episode transcripts of the shows I use  
in my stories like I always do, found on Becky's most helpful website, and interpreted them as I  
saw fit. As for when this is set in Stargate SG-1, know that it is after Shades of Grey that aired  
during their third season. Given the AU nature of this series, ages, birth dates, canon time lines  
have been altered. I expect at least one more in the series to finish the story arch. It might take  
some time to post because I shall be moving in a few days and unable to access my own computer  
for a while. I shall be writing using the ancient and archaic tools of my ancestors which I still  
employ, namely pen and paper.  
  
***  
  
*Blessed Protector, my ass,* Jim fumed as he paced outside his Guide's room. He remembered  
the term faintly from those tense, slightly hysterical, relief-filled days after Lash had burst into  
their lives. He remembered it being something of a joke, something to laugh over and then forget,  
a distraction from the very close call that night at the warehouse. But now the name had returned  
with surprising clarity. *He's been coughing up a lung for the past few days and I've been  
worried about pancakes.*   
  
He glared half-heartedly at O'Neill. The colonel had shown up for breakfast uninvited, and was  
now sitting on the living room couch like he owned the place. Sure, he talked about needing their  
help. Actually, he talked about *National Security,* *Highly Confidential Information,*  
*Fate Of The World In Your Hands* stuff, and the ever popular *Help Me Obi-Wan Kenobi,  
You Are Our Only Hope.* Jim had heard it all before (expect the Obi-Wan Kenobi bit) and he  
knew that people could say those things and still try and screw you over at the fist given  
opportunity. He'd spent 18 months in the jungle after a similar spiel, a vacation that had cost the  
lives of his men. He didn't trust what he didn't know and there was a lot Jack O'Neill hadn't said.   
Nevertheless, Jim had to admit that was mostly because Blair looked ready to collapse into his  
fruit salad and drown in a liberal portion of whipped cream. The colonel had produced a local  
doctor who did house calls. Blair was even now being examined while Ellison had been  
summarily dismissed from the room for excessive hovering.  
  
Ignoring the mess of batter bowls and frying pan in the kitchen, not to mention O'Neill's covert  
glances from where he sat flipping through daytime tv, he finally decided that the doctor had had  
enough "private time" with his Guide, and burst back into the room.  
  
The doctor, a tall authoritarian woman with chocolate brown skin and short hair only a dark cap  
on her skull, scowled at Jim's entrance.  
  
Blair fought back a smile from where he sat on the edge the bed. *Someone should tell her Jim's  
immune to those things.*  
  
"How good of you to join us, detective," she said in a tight, condescending tone as she replaced   
her stethoscope around her neck. "As I was telling Mr. Sandburg, he has walking pneumonia  
which is lucky for him. A more common form of pneumonia would need immediate  
hospitalization. He's already taking antibiotics for more virulent strains of bacterial pneumonia  
which probably helped. Expect a low grade fever and a dry cough to last anywhere from five days  
to two weeks. It should have been noticed a *week* ago," she eyed him sharply, " however it  
sounds as if his lungs are beginning to loosen up, and there is nothing enforced bed rest, regular  
meals, and lots and lots of pills and juice can't solve."  
  
She ripped off a sheet and then another from her prescription pad and handed them to Ellison who  
took them gratefully. *That's what I like to hear,* he thought in relief. *Bed rest I can do; pills,  
juice, meals, I can do. I can help.* He looked at Blair, who was watching the doctor, a  
disgusted look on his face at the mention of more medication. The two men locked eyes, battling  
the silent, old war of whether Blair should or should not be allowed to take his own herbal  
remedies instead of the doctor's "techno-crap."  
  
The doctor left with an exasperated look at both of them. Jack, who waited in earshot outside the  
door, stuck his head in.  
  
"Don't mind him Doc, he was raised by wolves," the colonel explained gesturing at the detective  
as he lead the now bewildered doctor out of the room. "We've barely begun to house train him,"  
he continued on oblivious to another Ellison death glare aimed at the back of his head. Blair  
smothered his laughter and Jim turned and shot him a withering glance.  
  
The grad student smiled slightly as he threw up his hands in mock frustration, but with more good  
humor than anything else. "Go ahead Jim, say it, my fault for not taking care of myself, etc. etc.  
etc. Act before you have an aneurysm, man."  
  
Suddenly freed from his limbo, Jim moved forward to help his partner into bed, but he didn't feel  
like reaming his friend a new one for being so foolish.  
  
*No scolding or yelling at him,* he reminded himself. *Not your place really. It's not like   
this . . . caring for Blair thing is more than just friendship, an actual instinct, is it?*  
  
*It damn well feels like that. Protect the Guide. Blessed Protector. Does Blair know about  
this? Has he written another damn chapter about it, or was it just a joke to him too?* he  
wondered. *But then didn't Blair save me first?*  
  
("Wow! Oh, that really sucked, man!"  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"It was that thing I was trying to warn you about -- the zone-out factor.")  
  
Things still felt so awkward between then, so much said and unsaid. But if Blair was anything he  
was practical, he'd proven it on the job going from self-absorbed anthropological babbling to  
competent and skilled backup in an instant. The doctoral candidate was more than willing to shift  
priorities away from the personal to the professional as the situation demanded.  
  
*Except that stupid one where he thinks I'm more important than he is. Gotta fix that,* Jim  
thought, remembering Mexico, remembering Cheyenne Mountain. *Rescue missions with  
walking pneumonia. Not on my watch Sandburg.* "Is this one of the things you missed, Chief?   
Me chewing you out for bonehead decisions?" he joked as he brought the blankets up over his  
friend. This wasn't his usual place. Blair rarely got sick, and when he did he would take care of  
himself with weird potions. Jim usually kept his distance so he wouldn't catch anything and go  
through the horror of Sandburg cures in place of the dreaded cold medicine.  
  
Blair shrugged as he resigned himself to Jim's sudden, seemingly necessary fussing. *Necessary  
for Jim,* Sandburg told himself sternly. *Naomi Sandburg didn't raise co-dependent children.   
It's not like I need this. Really.* "In a perverse love/hate sort of way," he replied dryly.  
  
Jim took a minute to eye the prescriptions. "Mixed feelings, Chief?"  
  
"Mixed everything. It feels like my eyeballs are falling out." He rubbed his eyes, the weight of  
exhaustion coming to rest on his shoulders. It felt like the biggest adrenaline burn-out, post-finals  
week he'd ever had. He could sleep for a week and then turn over and nap some more with ease.  
  
Jim stood, shifting from foot to foot, feeling self-conscious. *Just ask him, dammit! It's Blair!   
He's not gonna laugh at you!* "Would it--would it help if I stayed?" he asked hesitantly.  
  
Blair blinked up at him, confusion and surprise in his eyes. Jim nearly bolted at the sight of them.   
*Dammit Ellison!* he cursed himself, *Watching him after that arrow thing doesn't mean he  
wants to be coddled! Just because last night *you* needed to . . . watch him doesn't mean  
anything!*  
  
It was something he refrained from doing just on principle. He didn't spy on Sandburg using his  
senses. He would not, would *not* listen to the man breathe, his heart beat, the blood rush  
beneath his skin. He wouldn't! It was wrong, it was weird; God knew "real men" didn't do that.   
They were roommates, friends, partners, or at least they were. It was not right for Jim to use his  
sense to to assure himself of his partner's well-being when he was just down stairs or across  
the bullpen, or sitting at the kitchen table while he watched television with the volume down low.   
It was unnecessary, it was an invasion of privacy; drowning didn't give him the right to suddenly  
allow himself this intrusion, this secret, this occasional guilty comfort. Just because the loft felt  
silent as a tomb without him didn't mean a damn thing. He did *not* spend his days watching  
Sandburg.  
  
*Denial,* a voice inside Jim sang. *Denial is more than just a river in Egypt!*  
  
"Yes." The sudden affirmation brought Ellison quickly back to the present. The Sentinel silently  
thanked whatever deity watched out for Watchmen who put their foot repeatedly in their mouths,  
thanked them for understanding, if slightly mixed-up, Guides who managed to take all that crap in  
stride. Blair always knew what to say, he marveled.  
  
Sandburg looked at him levelly for a moment before easing down on to the pillows. "Thank you,"  
he murmured as he watched through half closed eyes as Jim took a seat. The detective snorted at  
the gratitude for so simple an act, trying not to smile like an idiot at the thought that Sandburg  
would *thank* him for this. "No, I mean it," Blair said with a yawn. "I've not been . . . very stable  
lately." *Well that was an understatement,* the student thought slightly embarrassed.  
  
"*You've* not been very stable?" Jim asked incredulously.  
  
Blair offered him a tired grin as he got comfortable and turned slightly on his side to face his  
partner. "So, what's good for the Sentinel is good for the Guide?"  
  
Jim glanced down at his hands. "Yeah. So sleep. Big day tomorrow."  
  
"What's goin' on tomorrow?" Sandburg mumbled as he closed his eyes.  
  
"You're resting and I'm making soup."  
  
"Sounds like a-- " another yawn interrupted the words, "busy day. Still need to tell you 'bout  
Alex."   
  
Jim shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Later."  
  
There was a moment of silence and Ellison wondered if Blair had finally dropped off so he could  
resume the more comfortable position of sitting on the floor by the bed with his arms and head  
resting on the mattress. Surprisingly, his back hadn't complained at all from last night's odd  
activity. Some part of him actually found it . . . comfortable, comforting. But he didn't want to  
think about that. *Denial, denial, denial!*   
  
"Jim?" Sandburg's voice intruded on the stillness, proving him far from sleep.  
  
"Yeah, Chief?" Jim replied quietly.  
  
"Don't kill Jack while I sleep, 'kay?"  
  
"I'll do my best," Jim promised solemnly. "Sleep."  
  
***  
  
Jack O'Neill turned away from the stove where an early dinner was almost prepared. He watched  
as Ellison finally pulled himself away from Blair. The colonel had stuck his head in the room a  
few times throughout the day and found the detective silently watching Jacobs. It was kinda  
funny to see the larger man hover over his partner. He silently hoped he didn't act like that when  
Daniel ended up in the infirmary, but he secretly knew he probably did. Jack was gratified to  
know first hand that beneath the seeming frigid exterior Ellison seemed to really care for Blair.  
  
*You shouldn't judge people so quickly, Jack,* Daniel's voice echoed in his head. Even miles  
away from his own archeologist/linguist, Daniel still found a way to have his say. O'Neill shook  
his head ruefully and admitted the truth about the statement. He'd been a cold son-of-a-bitch for a  
while there too. His unofficial "detainment" in Iraq, his own family life, his wife Sarah, his son . . .   
there were a lot of things that could make someone bitter and hard. Ellison's army record was no  
walk in the park either, losing all of his team, being betrayed by his commander, hard missions he  
could never speak of to anyone. He'd been married for a short while before that fell apart as well.   
Jack knew better than to throw stones in his own glass house, even faced with daunting first  
impressions. Hell, couldn't he still play the hard ass if the situation required it? It seemed as  
thought the Stargate project had mellowed him. *All right, all right, my team, Sam, Teal'c, and  
Daniel, Danny boy, mellowed me,* he admitted stirring the pasta sauce. It seemed as if Jacobs  
had done the same thing for one James Ellison.   
  
He'd started cooking an hour earlier, taking his time, and like magic the smell of pasta and tomato   
and the faint trace of frying onions in butter led Ellison to the kitchen where O'Neill stood taste  
testing.   
  
"Spaghetti?" the colonel asked holding up a ladle.  
  
The detective eyed the other man warily. "Sure." The plates were found, the food dished out and  
both men took their seats on opposite sides of the table. *If Blair was here he would say this all  
means something,* Jim thought to himself as he sprinkled his food liberally with Parmesan  
cheese. *Something about body language unconsciously speaking messages or something.*  
  
"Is he still sleeping?" Jack asked.  
  
"Yeah," Jim replied.  
  
They ate in silence for a few long minutes, intent on their plates, uncertain of what to say. Jim  
was vaguely surprised to find the spicing and content of the meal almost identical to Blair's own  
spaghetti recipe.   
  
"He looks like shit," Jack said suddenly. Ellison almost dropped a spaghetti laden fork at the  
words. "What happened?"  
  
The detective glanced up briefly to meet the older man's eyes before returning his gaze quickly to  
his plate. "He . . . drowned," he said quietly.  
  
Jack drew back and paled. "Shit. Accident or--"  
  
"Murder."  
  
The colonel swallowed hard, choosing to stare out at the waves before asking, "How long?"  
  
*I don't know. He was a long time in the water, not breathing a long time, too long. I was so  
worried he'd be . . damaged.* But Jim didn't say that, didn't want to think about the possibilities  
that had raced through his head as he waited in the hospital. And then he had spent only the brief   
amount of time with his partner upon awakening because he was afraid, so very afraid of what  
he'd find. "At least 20 minutes, probably more," he finally replied breaking the silence.  
  
"Tell me you got the bastard," O"Neill growled.  
  
*Oh, only after I let her murder my partner, refused to listen to Blair apologize for his mistakes,  
had a passionate necking episode on a Mexican beach, let her drug me with ancient herbs and  
nearly chose her over Blair the way it seemed Blair almost choose her over me.*   
  
But none of those words came out though they were the truth.   
  
"The bitch is gone. How did you know to look for Blair here?"  
  
Jack blinked at the sudden question and topic change. Ellison didn't sound angry, but curious,  
interrogative. For a moment it made the colonel think of the detective at work, facing a suspect  
minus spaghetti of course, carefully searching for answers. *Might as well be honest with the  
guy,* He thought to himself. *NID did kidnap him after all.*  
  
"I didn't," Jack answered easily, swirling pasta around his fork lazily. "Well, I didn't expect to find  
*you* here," he admitted. "I thought I'd talk to Blair before approaching you about the general's  
offer."  
  
Jim eyed the airman sharply. "You just *guessed* he'd come here then?"  
  
Jack snorted in irritation. "The way he was looking? Hell, yeah." He took a sip of his beer.   
"Haven't seen him this bad since he finished his masters." Jim inwardly winced. This man knew  
things about Blair, his partner, his friend, that he didn't and it was beginning to bother him. It  
shouldn't bother him he had wanted to know some of Sandburg's friends, hadn't he? *I just  
never thought he'd have friends like this.*  
  
("Lieutenant? Good job.")  
  
Jim had never in his most craziest dreams, jaguar ones included, thought that he and Blair came  
from the same place. Sure they were both raised by single parents, but their backgrounds were  
not congruent at all. Finding out one Colonel Jack O'Neill had been there for his Guide was a  
shock. O'Neill would be the kind of guy he would have floating around in his past, not Blair.   
  
"You don't trust me, do you Ellison?" Jack's voice interrupted calmly. "After the whole  
kidnaping thing I don't blame you." The colonel stared at him and shrugged, slightly embarrassed  
for his own part in the cop's incarceration. "I'm sorry for what happened. Various Black Ops  
groups can be . . . overly excited, as you know. We asked for an investigation into Blair  
Sandburg's work through the appropriate channels. Someone made the connection to some ex-  
CIA jerk and you, and jumped the gun."  
  
*Well that makes sense, it *sounds* like the truth.* "Then explain to me why you came here to  
talk to Sandburg, if it is me you want?" Jim asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.   
Did the government think that Blair would say *Oh sure, I've got a Sentinel. Here, you can  
have him.* Blair had changed his dissertation for him, had broken into a top level security base,  
no doubt with the help of his ex-CIA friend Jack Kelso, but still . . . Maybe O'Neill didn't know  
Blair like he thought he did. Or had he come to steal his friend away and use him as bait, as  
leverage to gain his cooperation?  
  
Suddenly alert, Jim let his senses spiral outward, locking onto Blair's even heartbeat as he scanned  
the perimeter with hearing, smell, even sight.  
  
No one was there.  
  
"I figured that Blair wouldn't be too happy if I showed up at your house and wanted to speak to  
you about it. I don't know how long you've know Blair but--" O'Neill looked away, choosing his  
words carefully. "He was dangerously on edge at the base. You weren't really awake. He could  
have killed." He took a swallow from his bottle. "I've seen it before," he insisted, reading  
Ellison's disbelief at the statement. "He would have killed to protect you, even me."  
  
Blair killing. Those words as far as Jim was concerned did not belong in the same sentence, the  
same paragraph, the same fucking book any more than the words *Blair* and *bomb* did,  
*Blair* and *explosions,* *Blair* and *car crash,* *hand grenade,* *prison,* *serial  
killer,* *falling elevator,* *fountain . . .*   
  
"I think it's a good thing you're here. That way I only have to explain my CO's offer once," Jack  
continued, oblivious to his dinner partner's more morbid train of thought.  
  
He stared at O'Neill. The man was not trying to be secretive or manipulative, his senses told him   
that much. He really did care for Blair. He wasn't sure what the man's orders were which  
naturally made him a risk, and the colonel's connection to his Guide was still fuzzy. Without  
understanding it, Ellison couldn't understand him. *Motive.* Jim thought. *Just like in  
investigating a case. Figure out who wants what and why.* "He was Army, you're Air Force,"  
Jim pressed carefully. "You weren't his CO."  
  
Jack shrugged, unconcernedly, something of a smirk touching his lips as if he was enjoying  
watching the detective piece everything together. "He was an Army ROTC chopper pilot out of  
the 101st Airborne, an officer because of his college degree, one of hundreds who signed up to pay  
for education and then get out. I'm a career officer in the Air Force. Officially the two of us have  
never met."  
  
"And unofficially?"  
  
The man offered the detective a shit-eating grin. "The two of us have never met."  
  
Jim's eyes narrowed at that. "I have clearance."  
  
"Ya think?" The colonel shook his head in amusement. "Not for this, and even if you did, it's  
*Blair's* story. Unless he says it's okay, it is none of your goddamn business Ellison," he  
reminded the Sentinel. "For cryin' out loud, let the kid have some privacy and eat your damn   
spaghetti."  
  
***  
  
D-Day.  
  
Defense Day.  
  
Dissertation Day.  
  
Imminent Doom Day.  
  
A day he had put off, agonized over, changed his mind about at least 100 times was here. A day  
that symbolized the paper *not* being defended this day. A paper that had been the bane of Jim  
Ellison's existence, had been a catalyst for the tremendous fallout following the nuclear explosion  
that was the break up of their partnership.   
  
Blair was ready.  
  
Ready to throw up that is.  
  
*Oh, God. Just put me out of my misery now,* he thought foggily as he huddled under the  
covers, refusing to face the light of day. If he peeked up from underneath the unfamiliar blankets,  
he would see his hotel room and the unusually bright and sunny day for Cascade from outside his  
14th floor window. Jack had invited both of them to stay at the hotel, next door to his suite after  
yesterday's near disastrous moment of intense silence that had followed the Sentinel and Guide  
disembarking at Cascade airport, bags in hand, unable to decide just *where* to go from there.   
  
He supposed he could blame this all on the walking pneumonia. Jack had called Jubi the day he  
had arrived down at the beach house in Carlsbad and they'd found a willing doctor to come check  
him over. Jim had hovered like a specter of death over the woman, demanding immediate  
answers, double checking all the doctor's findings with his own senses until he was summarily  
thrown out.  
  
Afterwards, both Ellison and O'Neill had convinced him to call the university and see if they  
couldn't change his defense date, putting it off an extra week so that he could recuperate. Blair  
had made the call and gotten the extension due to special circumstances. *Special  
circumstances,* he thought derisively. *Dying. C'mon world, you can say it. Blair Sandburg  
died. And he damn well deserved it.*   
  
Jim had looked ready to have a stroke if he didn't agree to rest a while. He hadn't ordered Blair to  
stay in bed per se, hadn't demanded it. He'd suggested in a quiet tone what, in his opinion, Blair  
should do, but the jaw clenching was a dead giveaway every time. If Blair stuck so much as a toe  
out of bed, the Guide knew damn well that the Sentinel would have a hissy fit.  
  
Not a pretty sight.  
  
So he'd spent a lazy weekend sleeping, card playing and talking long hours with Jack about old  
times, about his ex-wife Sarah, about his son. He had Jim's jaguar as a foot warmer and blanket  
hog at night. (Blair had a sneaky suspicion Jim had sent the animal to watch out for his Guide, as  
if the animal's primary job wasn't to look out for the *Sentinel.*) He and his Sentinel spent the  
time going over the possibilities of taking this one time nebulous job offer to supposedly "save  
the world" from unexplained "outside attack" of all things, (if the information he and Jim had  
wheedled out of Jack after a few days of prodding was the truth with no supposed strings  
attached). Blair had laughingly joked that it sounded like alien attack, and asked Jack if they were  
being recruited to fly up into a mother ship and destroy it. Strangely enough O'Neill's smiling  
reply seemed a little forced. Blair had spent the week discussing ideas and opinions in a delicate  
way with his Sentinel as if the conversation was a minefield and they both wanted to get through  
it alive or at least with all their major limbs intact.  
  
Blair still hadn't managed to talk to Jim about Alex.   
  
They'd covered all the other big issues that revolved around the fountain, his death. *Well, to be  
honest, I've broken down and like some petulant child dredged up everything in the last three  
years and thrown it at my best friend.*  
  
It had been petty in a way. Bu he had been so *angry* and for once he was going to *get* angry  
before Jim did, and have his damn say. The Guide might be the compromiser, the one whose duty  
it was to ensure the Sentinel's safety and well-being on all levels first and foremost, to forgive and  
forget, but he had reached his breaking point rather spectacularly and been insistent that his anger  
be dealt with first in those days before Jack had arrived.  
  
It might have had something to do with the crossbow bolt that was and was *not* sticking out of  
his chest.  
  
Either way, the actions and mistakes he had made *before* his fateful meeting with the fountain  
outside Hargrove Hall (which he secretly hoped had been taken to with a sledgehammer while he  
was gone) still had to be discussed, dragged kicking and screaming into the light of day before  
Jim's *Third Solution* could even be contemplated seriously.  
  
That meant talking about Alex.  
  
It ultimately meant finally talking about the sacred cow of their partnership.  
  
Their Deal.  
  
Blair held no illusions either way of how the detective would react when he told him the truth in  
detail, an expansion of his apology in the bullpen that one day.  
  
Other than that gut-wrenching ball of anxiety in his stomach, the weight of it on his mind, it had  
been restful, peaceful, full-of-antibiotics, hovering-Jim-who-was-really-trying-to-give-him-space  
week.  
  
And it gave Blair plenty of time to work himself into a full panic playing the dreaded *What If*  
game about his Imminent Defense.  
  
Imminent Doom.  
  
*Get up Blair! Face the day! Face the day you find out if you are a failure or a success in the  
academic world. It's not too bad. It's only what's left of your once semi- stable LIFE!*  
  
Something heavy landed on the bed next to him and whined. A wet nose reached the back of his  
neck with unerring accuracy. "Okay!" Blair sputtered, voice still hoarse after days of coughing  
that still hadn't let up, pulling away from the cold intruder. "Okay! I'm up, I'm up."  
  
His blanket was slowly pulled from the bed. Turning to look over his shoulder he saw the jaguar  
happily kneading the item to itty bitty bits.  
  
*And I thought Jim was harsh when I slept in,* he thought ruefully.  
  
"Okay guys, I've rejoined the land of the living, in more ways than one, now scat! Begone!" he  
said waving the spirit guides away. "Jack's generous military paid vacation is covering this, but  
wanton destruction of bedding is a bit extreme."  
  
The cat pawed at the material a moment more before walking off to the other side of the room, as  
if it had been his idea to leave the blanket alone. The jaguar turned and made a soft growling  
noise. The wolf on the bed looked towards the cat, gave Blair one slurping lick and bounded  
after the animal, both vanishing into thin air.  
  
"Thanks guys!" he yelled after them in annoyance as he wiped off his now wet face.  
  
There was a quick knock on his door before it was flung open, Colonel Jack O'Neill entering  
without waiting for permission. Spending some four months together in a tiny prison cell didn't  
translate to much in the way of modesty and physical privacy between the two of them. "Thank's  
for what, kid?" he called as he pushed a food laden tray before him into the bedroom.  
  
"What are you, room service?" Blair asked with a hoarse laugh, choosing to ignore the question.   
Supposed *outside attack* aside which sounded suspiciously like something Fox Mulder  
might be interested in he doubted that Jack would be very accepting of invisible spirit animals.  
  
"Where's Ellison?" Jack lifted the lids off steaming plates piled high with breakfast: scrambled  
eggs, waffles, fruit, sausages, bacon, french toast, biscuits and jam.  
  
"Shower," Blair replied, cocking his head towards the sound of water running. "He'll be out  
soon."  
  
"Or we'll eat aaaalll his food," Jack added happily, dragging a chair close to the bed on which  
Blair sat, the cart before him, and started digging in.  
  
"Like hell you will," Ellison countered easily as the bathroom door burst open with a hiss of  
steam. Blair rolled his eyes from where he sat on the bed. He'd warned Jim not to use his senses  
around Jack if he didn't want the colonel to know what he was. O'Neill had yet to come right out  
and ask, though he'd mentioned casually in a non threatening way that the mission required a  
Sentinel and a companion.   
  
Towel lying against his neck, Jim was clad only in a pair of well worn jeans as he came over to  
sniff appreciatively at breakfast. He glanced curiously at the ripped blanket on the floor as he  
passed.  
  
Blair, catching his questioning glance, just smiled and shrugged. Jack, finally noticing the object  
of this silent conversation, whistled lowly.  
  
"Whoa Blair, that's like the third blanket. Not getting enough fiber in your diet?" he teased.  
  
Blair answered with the appropriate rude gesture before he began picking at his food. Jim inhaled  
breakfast like a starving man, patting his stomach contentedly before taking seconds. "Have I  
mentioned how much I like eating on the government's payroll?" he announced to the world at  
large.   
  
Jim looked over at Blair's still more than half full plate as he loaded eggs onto his plate. "Chief,  
you gonna finish that?"  
  
"No thanks, you can have it," Blair offered, pressing the plate into his hands.  
  
Jim hesitated before refusing the food and nudging his partner to keep on eating. Blair was too  
skinny and too pale, his eyes were surrounded by dark rings, his hands shook and he tired easily.   
His lungs had finally drained of most fluid his cough now a dry one. He still became out of breath  
walking or climbing stairs or lifting things, which wasn't at all good because Blair hated the  
elevator, liked to walk places, and insisted he could carry his own things. He hadn't been eating  
well and today was a big day. "You really should eat. Don't want you passing out before the  
defense committee," Jim ribbed, hiding his worry behind a facade of good humor. *No need to  
make Blair any more nervous than he is. His heart rate is elevated just thinking about it.*  
  
"I don't know," Jack put in with a grin. "It would be a hell of a way to make an impression."  
  
Blair snorted derisively. "It will take more than fainting to get Sidney Oldman on my side. Man,  
what deity did I piss off to have the head of the department on my defense committee as  
chairperson no less?"  
  
"He's the one who got you fired?" Jim asked sharply, eyes narrowing with plots of vengeance.  
  
"Well him, the Chancellor and Ventriss's father," Blair explained through a mouthful of toast. "He  
thought I was stalling on turning in my diss, feeding my advisor a line of bull for three years,  
missing too many days of work." *Which I was,* Blair thought privately. "He's an overbearing  
prick."  
  
"What if something happened to him on the way to your defense?" O'Neill asked in all innocence.  
  
Jim grinned at the colonel and adopted a similar expression. Sometimes he really liked how the  
older man thought. "You know how dangerous Cascade is, Chief. Would you be able to defend  
your diss to a committee of four?"  
  
A warning finger lifted itself. "Don't you two even *think* about it!" Blair commanded. "Go  
vent your secretive assasinistic tendencies on other people okay? I can handle my own villains  
just fine thanks," he finished, a grin threatening to destroy his scolding facade. He glanced down  
at his watch and paled slightly. "Oh, man," he whispered. Two hours, two hours and it would be  
11:00 a.m.: T minus two hours to D-Day.  
  
A gentle hand cuffed him lightly, bringing him out of his paranoid fatalistic visions. "C'mon  
Darwin," Jim urged with a smile. "Finish eating and then we can get going."  
  
*We,* Blair thought looking down at his now empty plate, struggling between self-hate and  
pleasure at his best friend's easy words. Jim didn't know everything yet, but . . . *We.*   
  
It had such a nice ring to it.  
  
***  
  
Jim stood a moment and surveyed his surroundings. It had been over two weeks since he had  
parked in this very parking lot and rushed up the stairs to Hargrove Hall only to turn back, pulled  
away by the *absence* of a sound.   
  
('You'll know where to find me,") Blair had said.  
  
And he had.  
  
He stared at the fountain now, which had the audacity to be bubbling cheerfully as if it wasn't  
some murderous tool, an instrument of death, a thing of nightmares, an obscenity. Ellison had a  
strong urge to head for the nearest hardware store, purchase himself a sledgehammer and engage  
in therapeutic vandalism, namely demolishing one fountain.  
  
*Maybe a jack hammer might be better,* he thought idly. *Or a backhoe. Do they rent those  
really big ones without permits and forms and stuff? Have to ask Blair.*   
  
He snorted at that thought. Ask Sandburg? The kid would freak. Or he'd start that wonderful  
lecture on channeling aggression through healthy, socially accepted norms. Jim very much  
doubted wanton destruction of property would be something Blair would go for.  
  
*But then again,* Jim glanced at his partner, rubbing his chin ruefully. *Blair is full of surprises  
lately. He might like it. Hell! He might even insist on helping. Maybe I could do it sort of as a  
graduation present.*  
  
He'd have to ask later though. Blair was at the moment discussing something with Megan who  
had pulled up in her sleek car and was pointing to a number of boxes she had brought. His  
Guide's voice washed over him, soothing, though he didn't focus on specific words, leaving Blair  
his privacy.  
  
Jack had climbed out of the driver seat of the jeep he'd rented at the airport, another charge on the  
military's credit card. Damn if it didn't feel good, Jim thought smugly spending their money.   
*Have to go to some horribly expensive restaurant to celebrate. Something with exotic food,* he  
thought, knowing his Guide's tastes. *But not vegetarian,* he hurriedly amended his internal list,  
*and get O'Neill to pay for it.*  
  
Blair had dragged Jack into the conversation now and introduced him to the Australian Inspector.  
Megan bristled harshly at first sight of the colonel from the base, but now was more relaxed given  
Ellison's and Sandburg's calm demeanor around the man. Megan handed Blair some hard files she  
had come to drop off, the three off them were each juggling a box of stuff. *I guess they're notes  
for the defense,* Jim thought idly as he came around the vehicle and relieved Blair of his box,  
ignoring Megan's frosty look as she stalked past him, a carton full of books in her arms. She  
paled her burden in the back of Jack's car.  
  
"Jeez Jim," Sandburg whispered with a grin, elbowing his partner. "Is chivalry dead with you?"  
  
"You're recovering," Jim staunchly defended himself, nudging Blair out of the way and loading  
his carton into the rented vehicle. "She's a big strong girl, she can manage."  
  
Jack shot them an amused glance. "Does he have *any* social life?" he asked Blair  
companionably as if Ellison was not standing there as he tucked his box in the backseat alongside  
the other one.  
  
"Does a social life include people who want to kill him?" Blair asked innocently as they headed  
up the steps to Hargrove Hall, the fountain safely ignored. *Thank God,* Jim breathed in relief  
not even caring about the jokes at his expense. *Now if we can only leave by the back entrance  
and have Blair wait for us to drive around everything will go perfect.* He turned his attention  
back to the conversation with a mock scowl, playing along before Blair could start on some story  
of his ex-girlfriends.  
  
"Sandburg. . ." he growled warningly as the four of them pushed into the building waiting for  
Blair to lead the way. They entered a plush room outside a large clearly labeled conference room  
near where the anthropology professors had their offices.  
  
Megan pushed her hair out of her eyes and offered Blair a sad look. "Sandy, I can't stay. There's  
a break on the fraud case and Taggart wants my help questioning Connie Roberts in relation to  
the Chung murder at 11:30. But we're all going to try and find you tonight. The captain wouldn't  
let us off early," she scowled and then brightened, remembering something. "Rafe said something  
about a party though," she reminded him with a smile.  
  
"It's okay," Blair replied, making shooing motions with both hands. "I can handle this. You go  
catch bad guys. Tell the guys at the P.D. thanks."  
  
Megan surprised them all by leaning over and giving the anthropologist a peck on the cheek.   
"Good luck, Sandy," she said and then headed back down the hall.  
  
Jack's laughter broke the silence. "Tell me you're dating her."  
  
"Megan?" Blair asked with a grin. He shook his head. "Nah. She *bites.*"  
  
O'Neill raised one eyebrow from where he sat sprawled in his chair. "And that's a *bad* thing,  
Jacobs?"  
  
Sandburg smirked back. "I didn't say *that.*"  
  
"And how exactly would you know this, Chief?" Jim teased.  
  
Blair plopped down in the chair between the two men and scowled as if in deep thought, eyes  
diverted but lit with amusement. "Undercover work. Very hush hush. An important mission.   
Very dangerous. Lives were ruined. Reputations saved. Great discretion was shown," he said  
solemnly.  
  
"Riiiiight," the two men chorused after a beat.  
  
The department secretary took Sandburg's name and told them to wait. O'Neill started leafing  
through an archeology magazine wondering if Daniel had a copy and if not, could he steal it and  
give it to his friend. *Jackson loves this stuff, even if he doesn't publish,* Jack thought as he  
flipped through an article on the Theban Mapping Project, KV5, surprising himself by picking out  
translating and gross dating errors based on Daniel's spontaneous lectures off-planet.   
  
Jim leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable chair and watched his friend, growing more  
worried as the anthropologist began to fidget. Blair, unable to hold still, was on the edge of one  
of his frantic pacing spells that would, in the words of his partner be *so not good right now,  
man.* Jim reached out and grabbed the Blair's shoulder and redirect his attention.  
  
"What're the boxes for Chief? The ones in the car?" he asked. "Notes for the defense? I would  
have thought it would be all up here," he said teasingly tapping his friend's head gently.  
  
Blair smiled and shook his head, noticeably calming. Jim caught Jack's grateful glance at his  
intervention over Blair's shoulder as his Guide turned slightly to face him. The colonel turned  
back to his article, giving the two men as much privacy as he could. *Those two have a ton of  
things to work out,* Jack thought to himself. *And this article is completely wrong about the  
dates of these rocks.*  
  
"No notes man," Blair replied. "Don't need 'em, can't use them."  
  
"Mr. Sandburg?" a voice called. Sandburg turned around to face the secretary. "They're ready  
for you. Good luck," she offered with a smile.  
  
"Thanks, Mariah." Taking a deep breath, Blair squared his shoulders and prepared to enter the  
lion's den.  
  
"Chief?"  
  
The anthropologist turned to look behind him. Ellison stood, hand offered in front of him. Blair  
took it gratefully. "Thank you," Jim said, looking away briefly, trying to gather himself again, not  
really sure if Blair knew what he was thanking him for changing his diss because the younger man  
had paled visibly at the words. Jim pulled his friend into a quick hug and then stepped back.   
"Knock 'em dead, Chief," he said patting one cheek briefly.  
  
Blair smiled slowly and entered his defense.  
  
***  
  
*I am not acting like Blair. I'm not.*  
  
But even as Jim Ellison thought these words he found himself pacing the length of the waiting  
room, trying to refrain from stretching his senses into the room beyond and listening in on his  
partner's defense. At first the receptionist kept scowling at him and Jim scowled right back. Now  
she nearly hid a grin every time he passed her desk. Jack was pretending to read an article in  
some academic journal, but Jim knew, he just *knew* the other man was watching him, laughing  
at him. He caught the other man's smirk out of the corner of his eye every time he turned.  
  
*It's not that I'm worried. I'm not,* Jim told himself firmly as he went back and forth, back and  
forth. *I have every confidence that Blair's work is superb. Brilliant. Wonderful. Well written.   
Really, really smart.* He turned on his heel and began his trek back across the room. *I have  
absolute faith Blair wrote an incredible piece of anthropology. It probably deserves awards. It's  
his damn defense committee that's the unknown here. The variable. The Evil Ones.*  
  
The hearing dial slipped up a few notches before Jim ruthlessly twisted it back down, but not  
before   
  
" . . . the evidence suggests that the so-called "thin blue line theory" is a . . ."  
  
Ah HA! Blair was talking. That, Jim knew was a good sign. Once Blair got talking there wasn't  
much on earth that could stop him, especially if he really knew a lot about the subject and cared  
for it. *Those stuffy academics don't stand a chance,* Jim thought with a proud smile. *He'll  
steam-roll 'em all! That'll teach them to fire Blair.*   
  
More long minutes past. It was now almost one o'clock. Jack was attempting to doze in his  
chair, baseball cap pulled low on his brow. Jim continued to pace.  
  
There was a sudden noise of doors opening. Jim halted in his pacing. Jack stood abruptly and  
came to stand beside him as Blair left the conference room, closing the door behind him. The  
anthropologist looked pale, more than a little tired from standing and giving a defense of his work  
for almost two hours. Before Jim could grab hold of his partner, the secretary took him and  
steered him into a comfortable seat.  
  
"Thanks, Mariah," he said, his voice hoarse from extensive talking.  
  
The woman fussed over him for a moment. "I'll get you some water," she said, eyeing Ellison and  
O'Neill sternly as she left, her silent message of maternal instinct clear: *Don't you DARE hurt  
him!*  
  
*Don't need to tell me,* Jim thought. He rested a hand on his Guide's shoulder and Blair offered  
the two of them a smile.   
  
"They're talking it over now," he croaked.  
  
"Don't talk," Jim advised.  
  
"I think I did okay," Sandburg continued, oblivious to the command in Ellison's tone.  
  
"You probably knocked them off their feet," Jack said with a grin. "Their heads are probably so  
full, they can't even think straight."  
  
Mariah hurried back over, a mug in her hand. "Here, Blair. I thought some of that lemon and  
honey tea you got me might be better for your throat," she said, pressing the warm cup into his  
slightly trembling hand. "And I'm sure you did fantastic. They're probably in there deciding to  
pass your dissertation with distinction right now."  
  
"Thanks," Blair whispered, taking a sip of the beverage. He eyed his partner for a long minute.   
"You listening?" he asked in the barest of whispers. Blair expected Jim to either shake or nod his  
head in response. They hadn't told Jack. He hadn't asked point blank whether or not Jim was a  
Sentinel yet, so it paid to be careful.   
  
"Do you want me to?" Jim fired right back. O'Neill started at the seeming non sequitur.  
  
Blair shook his head. "I know you didn't listen while I was in there," Sandburg said with  
complete confidence, making Jim feel guilty even for that slight moment's slip in dials. He gave a  
raspy laugh. "I don't know if I want to know or not. I prefer tribal trials by fire to this any day,  
man."  
  
Jim cuffed him gently. "Shut-up and drink your tea, Sandburg."  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Jim was pacing for the both of them since Blair was not energized enough to  
perform his own brand of frantic walking complete with wild hand gestures and muttering.   
O'Neill and Mariah kept offering occasional platitudes, but wisely kept silent.   
  
There was the noise of a door handle turning and Blair, O'Neill, and even Mariah stood as a  
member of the committee called Sandburg back in. Jim clenched his hands into fists, fighting to  
keep from eavesdropping. Less than five minutes later the doors opened once again, the defense  
committee and Blair exiting.  
  
The chairperson stopped and faced Blair. "Congratulations, Mr. Sandburg. I look forward to  
reading your final draft with the revisions we mentioned. The recommendation to Rainier that  
you received your doctorate in anthropology will be finalized the moment both copies of your  
final dissertation are submitted," the man offered with a slightly pained smile on his face. "You  
did good work, Blair."  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Oldman," Blair replied dryly, eyes glowing, the formality of the title not lost on  
Sidney Oldman. The others gave their congratulations and inquired about Blair's health before  
moving away. Jack let out a whoop of joy and the two men hugged briefly, grinning like idiots,  
the colonel messing up the younger man's hair.  
  
"I knew you could do it, Jacobs!" The colonel pulled back and laughed. "I don't know what you  
were worried about!"  
  
Mariah came around and gave Blair a kiss, and Jim, smiling like a fool, grabbed his Guide and  
hugged him tightly.  
  
Jack slapped him on his back and offered both men a cigar. "Congratulations Ellison, it's a  
doctor."  
  
Mariah and Blair burst into laugher at that and all four of them left the office. Jim steered them  
subtly towards the back entrance of Hargrove Hall, but even in his happiness Blair was aware of  
the gesture and nodded his thanks. They opened the door out into the surprising sunlight of  
Cascade and were immediately ambushed by yelling co-eds and students.   
  
"CONGRATULATIONS!" the small crowd cried as they surged forward. Whistles blew, people  
were opening warm champagne bottles and handing the foaming items around, pouring and  
spraying it on a laughing Blair. Calls of congratulations rang through the air and Blair was pulled  
away from Jim, overwhelmed but happily so. It was enough to cause his ears to ring, but Ellison  
didn't dial down, wanting to experience it all for his partner.   
  
The ultimate sense memory for the man who could remember important moments as if they were  
recorded in his mind, word, sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste perfect.  
  
Jim could make out Simon amid the crowd. It seemed as if half the anthropology department was  
there, students Blair had taught and tutored, other graduate students. They passed his partner  
around. Jim could pick out the sounds of laughter and thank yous and even people bemoaning the  
loss of the anthropologist's long hair. Someone was playing a car stereo with way too much base,  
something that sounded very much like Queen's "We are the Champions." By the time Jim found  
his partner in the crowd of people he was covered with lipstick stains, his shirt and hair wet with  
champagne, and despite his pale features, he was grinning and laughing, finally awarded his  
doctorate, both of them free of the dissertation.  
  
Free of their Deal.  
  
Pushing that thought aside to be examined later, Jim pulled his Guide towards him using his size  
to create some space around the two of them giving Blair time to breathe. Simon made his way  
over towards them.  
  
"Congratulations, Sandburg," he said shaking the younger man's hand with a wide grin.  
  
"That's Doctor Sandburg to you," Blair pointed out, causing those who heard to cheer.  
  
The group started to dissipate; some had classes to get to, others back to work. But nearly two  
dozen grad students and assorted faculty and staff from Rainier stayed and were determined to  
take Blair out and get him drunk in celebration.  
  
"Sorry," Blair called out, his voice remaining steady. "I can't drink with the pills you know."  
  
There was a sigh of disappointment, and general ribbing all around and promises to get Sandburg  
drunk later. A party was mentioned and put on hold until Blair was well and the actual  
graduation took place several weeks later just after the end of the semester. Instead the group  
had plans to drag their honored doctor of anthropology to a Persian restaurant near campus where  
some considerate person had made reservations for the entire place well in advance.  
  
They headed en mass towards their cars, some helpful hands stowing the cartons of Sandburg's  
other dissertation safely in Jack's rented jeep. Blair stumbled slightly along beside Jim.  
  
"You did good, Chief," Jim said when the other man looked at him. He wrapped one arm around  
his friend's shoulders and smiled. "You did great."  
  
***  
  
Strains of Middle Eastern music filled the air and the lunch party was slowly winding down.   
Plates had been cleared by attentive servers who boxed the leftovers into take-out containers, and  
now baklava and tea was set out for the large group.  
  
In between stories and jokes, Jim made his way to a more quiet corner of the banquet room and  
found Simon sitting comfortably, smoking his cigar in relative peace.  
  
The captain of Major Crimes looked up and motioned for Jim to sit across from him. "Great  
party."  
  
Jim grinned, glancing over to check on his partner who was currently relating some outrageous  
story about Colonel O'Neill to his captive audience, while ignoring Jack's loud protests. "Yeah,  
Sandburg deserved it. He sure worked hard enough."  
  
Simon gestured towards the group with his cigar. "I'm surprised to see the colonel here. When  
Megan told me she saw him this morning I thought she was hallucinating." He eyed his detective  
shrewdly. "I take it there is a reason you haven't torn his head off yet, or at least charged him  
with aiding and abetting a kidnaping?"  
  
"There's a reason," Jim said defensively.  
  
"A good reason?"  
  
"He and Sandburg have a . . . history. They're . . . friends," Jim explained.  
  
Simon leaded back in his chair and smirked. "Well that wasn't too painful now was it, Jim?"  
  
"Fuck you, sir," Jim retorted good-naturdly. Sometimes Simon knew him almost as well as Blair  
did.  
  
"Have you and Sandburg fixed things? Are things back I refrain from calling them normal   
--but back to usual?"  
  
Ellison focused on the delicate painted plate hanging on the wall behind Simon's head. There was  
a burst of laughter from over where his Guide sat. He shrugged as emotionlessly as he was  
capable. "We're better."  
  
"I noticed you weren't staying at the loft."  
  
Jim took a sip from the glass of tea a server poured and waited until the man left before replying.   
"O'Neill offered. It was a safe maneuver. Unthreatening. I'm heading back there tonight. Lost  
needs to be aired out."  
  
"Last time I checked, Jim, this wasn't a war you were fighting," Simon put in pointedly, tapping  
his cigar at the edge of a convenient ash tray.  
  
"We have some things to work out, sir," Jim said stiffly. *Alex,* the unspoken word hung in the  
air. *The Deal.*  
  
Simon shifted his seat and eyed his detective knowingly. *Sir. All of a sudden I'm sir again.* "I  
see," he said quietly. "Connie Roberts skipped town this morning," he announced into the silence.  
  
"The Chung case?" Jim asked curiously.  
  
Banks nodded. "On a Ventriss owned plane no less. This case is bringing serious pressure on the  
department."  
  
Ellison took another sip of the scalding beverage and shrugged. Anything that happened to  
Ventriss was good in his book. The kid and his father had gotten Blair fired.  
  
Simon sighed and puffed on his cigar for a long moment, eyes fixed on the soon to be doctor of  
anthropology. "You know they're going to try and get out of this any way they can, Jim."  
  
Ellison followed his captain's gaze to his Guide. *They'll use Blair if they have to,* The message  
was as clear as if Simon had shouted it at him. He knew the captain played a sometimes  
dangerous game of appeasing the politicians and the powerful of Cascade and taking care of his  
men and focusing on crime, not politics. He rubbed his forehead ruefully. "I know, sir, I know."  
  
***  
  
Jim unlocked the loft and braced himself for the musty air that hit him as he opened his front door.   
Peering through the still room he hurried to the windows and the balcony and threw both open so  
that fresh air could fill the place before he started sneezing.   
  
He noticed the answering machine light blinking and hit play. Several messages filled the air and  
he kept pressing next; none of them urgent, some for Blair, one from Mark. He stopped when he  
heard Simon's voice. He listened as his captain explained himself at length good news followed  
quickly by bad.  
  
Sighing, he pressed stop and dialed his captain and left his own message.  
  
"Simon, it's Ellison. We'll be there 10 o'clock. I'm all for a consultant position with the  
department, but you better ask Sandburg first. As for the Chung case, I don't think he'll go for it.   
I know there's pressure from above, but I wouldn't mention it if I were you. Sandburg is *not*  
going to go for it, trust me on this, sir."  
  
He turned as he heard Blair thump down the hall from the elevator, breathing strained. Jim said  
his good-byes and hung up.  
  
Sandburg took two steps into the loft and dumped one of the boxes from Jack's jeep to the floor.   
He then ducked back out and dragged the other two in from the elevator. Outside, Jim could hear  
the colonel idling the engine for a moment longer before shifting gears and pulling out into traffic.   
They'd played musical cars after the party had broken up, finding Blair's car at Joel's, and then  
driving to the loft.  
  
Jim eyed the cartons with a slight grin. *Trust Blair to do the unexpected.* "You moving back in,  
Chief?"  
  
Blair shut the door and hung up his coat. "I have something for you."  
  
That was not the answer Jim had expected. He took in the three stuffed boxes. "What's all this  
then?"  
  
"It's yours, all of it," Blair said, waving at the cartons. "The journals, the notes, my personal  
observations, all of it," He crouched down and dug around inside one of the boxes and pulled out  
a sealed manila envelope. "Two copies of it on disk," he explained and then unearthed a massive  
tome that wouldn't be out of place in a dictionary section of the library, over three inches thick  
and bound in patent leather with gold lettering on the cover. "The one and only hard copy. That  
and Burton's book and field notes, research tapes, articles I bought, books I found it's all here.   
Even my master thesis," Blair said waving the document at Jim. "I don't have a single word  
elsewhere." Sandburg stood and ran a hand through his short hair, nervousness etched in every  
motion.  
  
Jim, stupefied, looked at the heavy book and read the familiar title.   
  
//The Sentinel-- Genetics, Mythology, and Ontology of Our Tribal Protectors//   
  
He pulled back with his sight, looked at his partner, and blinked stupidly.  
  
"Your research," Ellison said softly.  
  
Sandburg laughed a humorless laugh. "Yeah Jim, research. My fucking research. It's all here, by  
the way. Even the stuff about Alex." The name was spat like a curse. Those eyes finally met the  
detective's, wild, shame-filled. His whole body shook and for a moment Jim panicked thinking of  
seizures and other symptoms fueled by the fountain, the rescue, exhaustion.   
  
Jim took a sudden step forward and reached out a hand towards his Guide. *What the hell . . ?*   
  
"Chief, what . . . ?" he began, but Blair shook his head to silence him, eyes filling with tears, a  
sight Jim had seen so rarely from his partner in all of their turbulent years together that it shocked  
him. "Sit down," Jim ordered, grabbing his Guide's arm and steering him to the couch. He then  
went to the fridge and pulled out the nearly empty bottle of orange juice and poured the  
anthropologist a glass and handed it to him.  
  
"We need to talk, Jim," Blair croaked helplessly.  
  
"Drink first," Jim insisted, sitting down next to his friend. The detective didn't take his eyes of the  
younger man for an instant as he urged him to finish the juice, all the while crazy thoughts  
spinning through his mind. His sense latched onto his Guide, but he found no life-threatening  
alterations to his person. But Jim didn't calm down; this conversation was coming out of left field  
and he knew it was somehow important, but he was still lost. His Guide must have noticed the  
confusion in his eyes because he calmed suddenly, but it was hardly comforting, more like the  
calm before a storm.   
  
Blair took a deep steadying breath and ran both hands over his face, regaining his composure in an  
instant. "We need to face facts here, Jim. I need to tell you about Alex and this time you need to  
really listen," he said softly.  
  
Jim instantly stilled. They had talked and dealt with a lot of things over the past week or so. He  
hadn't had the courage to force the issue, ask *why* his Guide had helped her and not tried harder  
to tell him despite his own insane behavior. He didn't want to ask while Sandburg was sick; he  
still felt a stab of anger whenever her name was mentioned, anger at her, himself, and at Blair,  
Blair who was *his* Guide, *his* Shaman, *his* teacher.  
  
Not *hers.*  
  
"You need to hear this while your relatively sane," Blair explained with a slight grin.. "Need to  
know the *why* behind Alex before you ask me to stay and I believe you really mean it and *do*  
stay. You need to know what I've done, how badly I messed up now that the military is camped  
on your doorstep. It's important you understand why I shouldn't work with you anymore. You  
need a partner with their priorities straight, that's not me Jim."  
  
Jim stilled himself, feeling the inevitability of the moment, the very end of it all.   
  
Blair closed his eyes and swallowed hard, fighting to keep his composure. *God, this was so  
hard.* "You were busy when I tried to tell you about meeting Alex at the station, but later,  
because I wasn't sure how you would react, I decided not to try and tell you again. You were  
recovering from being shot; you were acting jumpy. Hell, you pulled your gun on me at the  
door." The anthropologist shook his head, refusing to take the easy way out, the justifications, the  
rationalizations. *Come clean, Sandburg,* he hissed internally *no obfuscating. If Jim can take  
your shit, you sure as hell can stand to get your fair share.* "But mostly I didn't tell you because  
I wasn't thinking like your Guide, I was thinking like a researcher, a scientist. How do two  
Sentinels react when meeting? What are the ramifications? Let's record it for posterity! Let's  
ruin Jim Ellison's life!" he said with a horrible parody of his normal cheerful voice. It grated on  
Ellison's ears like nails on a chalkboard, the words stabbing at his heart.  
  
Jim stared at the boxes filled with the dissertation their Deal had created. Those written words he  
had been so afraid of, the work Sandburg was going to make public, organized and  
compartmentalized into three cartons sitting in his living room. Words that had haunted him; their  
completion meaning the end of anonymity, of privacy, the end of their partnership which was  
technically dead this day regardless of Sandburg's change in topic. Words that seemed to be at  
the heart of Alex, the fountain, everything that had occurred before the day Blair had died.  
  
Before Jim could speak, the anthropologist plowed forward heedlessly, his words a desperate  
rush. "You know what happened to Alex, why she was at Major Crimes? She had been in a car  
crash, she could of died. The lights were suddenly too bright, the noises too loud, her skin itching  
like crazy, and I overheard her saying that and I thought, that could have been you! Hell, you  
nearly were a pancake yourself."  
  
Blair moved suddenly to sit on the coffee table so that he could face his partner. "One bright  
light, one loud sound and then BAM!" Sandburg brought his hands together sharply making Jim  
jump. "No more James Ellison," he said quietly. Blair stood and began his customary pacing,  
health be damned. "But it couldn't just be about that. Oh, nooo. It helped that she didn't care if I  
used test results. Of course, that was because she wasn't going to leave me *alive.*" Blair said  
with a humorless laugh. "But that's just rationalizations, pointless, futile justifications. You want  
your third solution? Then you damn well better know what I did. Why I did it," he said,  
bitterness coating his words with such self-hatred that Jim's anger almost seemed small beside the  
fury and self-loathing the younger man had for himself.  
  
("I was meaning to man. I was trying to get you two together in a controlled situation that's all.")  
  
"You told me that," Jim said tersely, jaw clenching fighting to contain his temper. "When I asked  
you about her, you told me why you kept it from me." *If that is true, why are you angry at him,  
huh?*  
  
Blair nodded slowly, eyes round, huge in the fading light. "I just want you to remember that  
before you decide you really, *really* want things back the way they were, to try again."  
  
Jim stared at his Guide. He wanted to yell, to scream at him, but he didn't know why. Sure, Blair  
deciding it was better to leave than stay was painful, something the Sentinel was willing to fight  
for, something Jim was willing to fight for, but that didn't mean he should be angry *at* Blair.   
Blair was afraid of what might happen, Jim couldn't blame him for that. His track record when it  
came to his partner was less than stellar.  
  
Blair as a teacher, teaching Alex, who was now more akin to various members of the vegetable  
family than to him, wasn't too hard to wrap his mind around. Jim could accept that with only  
minor difficulty. He could see where that was coming from. After all, wasn't a Shaman a  
teacher? Wasn't that was Incacha had asked him to call him in Quechua?  
  
("Amaut'a sutiwanki.")  
  
Call me Teacher.  
  
*He* had wanted to help Alex, and this was *after* she had murdered Blair (albeit instinct was  
playing a large role at the time). He and Alex were alike. Alex was the only one, the only one  
who really *knew* what he was going through. Incacha, Blair, they helped, they were  
understanding and steady as rocks, constant and unfailing, but they didn't know how it was to  
*live* with the senses day in and day out, be ridiculed as a child because of them, suffer incredible  
pain and embarrassment and blank spells. Alex understood, and on that beach in Sierra Verde Jim  
wanted nothing more than to be inside her very skin, to swallow her whole, be one, because here  
was some one who was *Just Like Him.*  
  
He let his gaze wander over to the three cartons siting by his front door. It wasn't as if this was an  
incredible shock, Jim reminded himself. The dissertation was not something new between them  
after all, but it was something that Ellison wasn't too fond of to begin with. *The Deal, it always  
comes back to that damn Deal.*   
  
Jim shook his head, fists on his knees, and found where his anger lay. "You should have told me.   
You should have told me!"  
  
("Why do I get the feeling you are not telling me everything?"  
  
"Because I don't have the energy to talk about it right now.")  
  
Blair stood suddenly. "You were freaking out! You *threw* me out. I didn't know what would  
happen if two Sentinels showed up in the same territory. I was flying blind and following my  
brain, *not* my instincts and I screwed up."  
  
"No! You should have told me about changing your diss," Jim clarified, standing to face his  
partner.  
  
"And then *what*?!" Sandburg pleaded, moving forward, squaring off against his friend. "Even if  
I did. . . deal's done. You're in control. Helluva week Jim. What then, huh? I finish the police  
dissertation and leave? Or do you throw me out on the spot? I'm no longer writing about you,  
does that mean I'm no longer your Guide? No longer your friend? Your Shaman?" he asked  
quietly. "I said it was about friendship. Wasn't it all "just academic" for you?" he quoted harshly.   
"In this urban environment, how much use is a Guide *really?* This isn't Peru; you haven't zoned  
in months. Simon and Megan have done a pretty good job even when you do zone, Connor  
without even knowing about it until recently."  
  
Jim fumed, nostrils flaring with every exhalation, voice raised as he cut Sandburg off. He  
clenched his fists tight, his jaw twitching, believing and unbelieving what he was hearing,  
surprised and unsurprised by the words coming from Blair. His partner had a way of downplaying  
his own role as Guide to that of researcher and observer. This type of backward thinking  
obviously led Blair to play scientist when he should have been thinking as a Guide. *My Guide!*   
  
*Time for a little reeducation of the Sandburg world view.* "Simon usually ends up slugging me  
to pull me out of zones! Megan thinks its some cool new age thing," continued turning around  
and throwing his hands up in the air before wheeling back to face his partner. "A Sentinel needs a  
Guide, remember? Are you just bringing this up now to make me mad, to justify your leaving?"  
  
Blair pulled back, shocked. "No. I *told* you the truth. I'm your friend. I'm around as long as  
you want me, and a more recent addendum to that *truth* is that it is as long as you don't treat  
me like shit," he spat.  
  
"You wanna hear the truth Sandburg? Is this what this is? Sudden death, spill our guts to each  
other? What, is it now finally, finally the time for the fucking unadulterate truth?!" He drew  
suddenly closer and gripped the other man's arms tightly. "My senses spike when you're not at the  
bullpen, not around for a couple of days," he hissed. "One day and I'm okay. More than that and  
it's as if, as if I'm . . . searching for you. Not exactly a zone, but not far off either. You go on  
vacation or to some conference," Jim said, pointing at his partner sharply "Leave city boundaries  
with or without telling me and I begin to . . . drift, worse when you don't tell me. I fucking loose  
it! People literally breathe easier when you're at work with me because that means I'm in control!   
It gets worse and worse when you're not there! I would *not* have thrown you out if you had  
told me! I know I didn't tell you half the things I should have about the panther and the dreams,  
but dammit!" He pushed away from the younger man and ran a hand across his face. "That  
fucking dissertation was hanging over my head, that's why I'm pissed. *Your* dream. *Your* holy  
grail, not mine. You know how I feel about being a lab rat! I don't like admitting how much I  
need you because it's freaky and fucking weird and hardly considerate to your privacy. I thought  
you would publish it if I told you, one more chapter on how Jim Ellison is a co-dependent  
coward, but it's true. I need my Guide, not a researcher." He said, voice low and gravely, more  
pain than anger.   
  
At Blair's bewildered, slightly stunned look, exasperation flared. "Get it through your head,  
RESEARCH IS NOT WORTH YOUR OR MY LIFE!" he roared causing Blair to flinch back,  
shame coloring his pale face. " For someone who talks so damn much, you don't say a fucking  
thing about *you,* Sandburg. This whole mess could have been avoided if you'd just paid  
attention for once in your life!" He sighed in frustration. "If *I'd* just paid attention for once in  
my life," he added angrily, furious at Blair, at himself, at Alex, at the damn jaguar, at Incacha.   
"For three years you've understood what I've said and not said, and all this time I thought we  
were on the same wavelength here, but *now* I find out I've be communicating broad band radio  
and *you've* been getting smoke signals!" he said, voice raising uncontrollably with every word  
as if sheer volume would help get his point through to Blair. Jim's harsh breathing cut through the  
sudden silence of the loft. Blair looked out at the city, body small, pulled in on itself as if the  
confession and argument cut at his soul. "I said I needed a partner I could trust and that's you, it's  
only ever been you, but it's difficult if I don't know what the hell is going on!"  
  
"When *you* don't know what is going on?" Blair repeated furiously. "Pots and kettles come to  
mind Jim."  
  
"I know, okay? Why didn't you explain all this at Carlsbad, in Sierra Verde?" Jim asked gesturing  
towards the files.  
  
("The Sentinel thing . . .")  
  
Sandburg's face crumpled into misery. "Because you were making out with the woman who  
killed me! You stuck a gun in my face! Again! I had a crossbow bolt in my side, that was and  
*wasn't* there that part of me wanted to blame on you and part of me screamed that it was my  
own goddamn fault! What do you think?!" he yelled. "I'm human, okay? For once I chose to get  
angry at you first before letting you take it out on me, even thought I deserved it! I woke up in  
that hospital bed and you visited for all of five minutes. Then Simon came in and demanded my  
observer pass back. It all just hit me at the beach house. You managed to push every single damn  
button I had demanding to know stuff about me all of a sudden, stuff that two weeks ago you  
could've cared less about. I did not go to San Diego to punish you! I went to San Diego to figure  
out how the hell to make things right. And then it was just you and me and I sort of lost it, okay?"   
Blair ran his hands through what was left of his hair, a physical reminder of exactly how he had, in  
fact, *lost it.* "I have a history of falling apart in that house. I'm not infallible, Jim. I'm not above  
acting like a selfish bastard when the mood strikes. The truth is that before I died I chose to think  
like a researcher instead of a Guide," he said harshly. "After the fountain I chose to think like a  
Guide, but not a fucking masochist! You do not have the patent on irrational blow ups, okay? I'm  
not Incacha! I wish to God sometimes I was."  
  
"I don't," Jim said quietly taking in his partner's words. "When I said I might not get over this, I  
didn't realize this mess went back this far, back to the beginning, back to our stupid Deal. A Deal,  
might I add, we never really got around to laying out the specifics for," he reminded the  
anthropologist pointedly. "Just another bunch of assumptions. Shit." He stared over at those  
boxes, three boxes that held the entirety of his life, his curse, his gift, his bane, his life with Blair.  
He tried to figure out just how they had gotten here of all places, standing in the middle of the loft  
Sandburg no longer lived in, staring at his partner's dream and his own nightmare. "Lemme ask  
you something, Sandburg, how can it be about friendship and the Sentinel/Guide stuff and the  
Shaman stuff and still be about research!?"  
  
"It was a dream I had before I met you. It was hard to let it go," Blair whispered knowing damn  
well Jim would pick it up.  
  
"I thought *I* was your dream, your holy grail."  
  
("You know it's more than just a research project.")  
  
"It was the idea of you. Later, once I knew you, things began to change. You became my best  
friend. I couldn't tell you about changing it 'cause I thought then everything would be over once I  
did, the partnership, our friendship, the Sentinel/Guide thing. And I couldn't stop writing and  
researching it, even if it was just for us. And you could've said something too," Blair pointed out  
vehemently. "It's unethical to use unwilling subjects. All you had to do was say no, man. I  
would have helped you regardless, even at the beginning." Blair hugged his arms tight around his  
torso as if chilled to the core. "And now . . and now the government is after you. And it's all my  
fault." He shook his head, his voice flat. "Sentinel research is dead. It poisoned us. It poisoned  
me," he finished quietly.  
  
Ellison took a deep breath, quelling his anger. It was pointless to get mad. The Deal was the  
Deal. Blair had helped Alex. Jim had brushed off his initial explanation of another Sentinel. Blair  
had kept them secret from him because he was worried, just like Jim kept the dreams and visions  
from his Guide. Jim had thrown him out. Things came to a boiling point and Blair died as a  
result. The next thing Jim knew he was on a beach in Mexico sucking the tonsils of the murderer.   
His whole world had turned upside down and inside out, and even after talking about it ad  
nauseam, ripping each other to shreds with self-guilt and anger, the two of them, Sentinel and  
Guide, still stood amid the fragments of what was left of their lives, incapable of fixing themselves  
alone, unable to truly and wholeheartedly walk away.  
  
Perhaps it was time for them to pick up the pieces and move on.  
  
Life after The Deal.  
  
Life after the fountain.  
  
Life *after* Blair?  
  
"The research helped me," Jim countered softly. As much as he hated the dissertation, he was  
what he was because of it. "I would have gone insane without it, without you. I would have put  
a gun to my head and blown my brains out," Jim said diffidently. He stepped towards the cartons  
and peered at their papery content. "So this is mine."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All of it."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Jim turned and stared at Blair. *Moment of truth, Ellison.*  
  
("Sentinel research is dead.")  
  
"I can do what I want with it." Fragments of early conversations filtered through his mind, plans,  
ideas, applications. Blair had had a hundred ideas of what to do with this research, goals far  
reaching and grand.  
  
The anthropologist nodded. "Yes."  
  
"And if I want to burn it?" Jim demanded. Sandburg had waxed on about helping other  
Sentinels, reviving an important cultural icon, bringing credibility to tribal beliefs.  
  
("It's about friendship.")  
  
Blue eyes met blue, unflinchingly. "I'll help you find the matches."  
  
"Start a fire," Jim said curtly. Those boxes held the potential treatment and hope for patients  
suffering from autism and other neurological ailments. The hope of children and teens Blair had  
worked with at the Cascade psychiatric unit, not only as a researcher, but as a volunteer, as a  
friend.  
  
Once a cheery blaze was going Jim dragged the three boxes over to the fireplace where Blair  
knelt, waiting, face impassive, eyes dark in the falling evening. The detective tore off the lid of  
once of the boxes and rummaged around inside. Photocopies of articles complete with  
bibliographic information were stacked neatly on top. All of it was neatly labeled and identified in  
some sort of filling order only anthropologists know. The organization briefly threw Jim off.   
After living with Blair for three years, after seeing his office, he was always surprised by how  
meticulous the anthropologist could be. He grabbed a bunch of papers and handed them to  
Sandburg in silence.  
  
("I just didn't get it before.")  
  
Blair promptly threw them in the fire.  
  
The flames licked at the paper hungrily, the words blackening, the articles curling in on  
themselves disappearing into flakes of ash. The fire spat and Jim handed his Guide another  
handful.  
  
Halfway through the first carton, photocopied paper gave way to texts, specifically a book. Jim  
pulled the tome out of the box and ran his fingers over the cracked leather spine and the golden  
impression of the words.  
  
//The Sentinels of Paraguay//  
  
("This is a monograph by Sir Richard Burton, the explorer, not the actor. It's over a hundred  
years old. Anyway, the idea goes something like this . . .")  
  
He looked up at Blair, his fingers still pressed against the cover. "This is your book."  
  
He shook his head. "No, not any more."  
  
"You got this as a kid," Jim said softly. He opened it gently to the page that held the image of the  
tribal Watchman, the spear-holding Sentinel, eyes farseeing even in the picture. "Y'know, I never  
read this." He glanced around at the other boxes, the ash in the fireplace. "I never read any of the  
stuff, except the intro I . . stole." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I mean, at the beginning  
you'd leave out all those articles out for me to read . . . I didn't read them. You don't do that any  
more."  
  
Blair shrugged and stared at his hands, orange in the firelight. "I figured you weren't interested."  
  
"I wasn't. I wanted it to all go a way. And you were in my face making it real when I didn't want  
it, didn't fucking want to remember, to use them, to test them, to write them up for some journal  
for scientists to poke and prod me," Jim continued slowly, rancor absent from his voice.  
  
"I remember," Blair agreed, voice sounding so old all of a sudden it made the detective look up  
and check to see if it really was Blair sitting before him and not Incacha. "I kept after you to  
work with them, expand them, accept them. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should have found  
a way to give you what you wanted instead."  
  
("Why did I let you drag me down here? I want to get rid of this thing, not figure out how it  
works.")  
  
Ellison's hands ran over the cover picking out every crack and warped edge. He could tell by  
touch alone which areas had faded in color, been smoothed over by hours of handling by his  
Guide, by Blair. "I never read this," he said again because it was suddenly important, important  
that he hadn't read *any* of this. He stared around the darkened loft, not dark for him, not since  
Blair had helped him, given him control. He cleared his throat again. "We can do the rest later, I  
guess."  
  
Blair's eyes met his, emotionless, for once revealing nothing when Jim so wanted to read what his   
partner thought. "Okay," he agreed. "I guess I should get going then." Blair stood slowly,  
weariness and exhaustion etched in every movement.  
  
"You'll miss the beginning of the game," Jim remarked casually as he put the lid back on the half  
empty carton leaving Burton's book out. "Your car radio could never pick up the station clearly."  
  
"Price of riding in style, man," Blair said with a faint grin that didn't reach his eyes. He reached for  
his jacket and pulled it on, careful of still twinging ribs. He hesitated at the door, hand poised on  
the handle. "I'm sorry Jim," he said softly. "It's probably not worth much, considering."  
  
Jim didn't know what to say. This went back farther than the fountain, back to the very beginning  
of their partnership. Was it any wonder Blair doubted they could try again with so flimsy a  
foundation? They had both screwed up, made mistakes, jumped to conclusion, been human.   
They could either go forward from here, or walk away from the aftermath of the past month and  
never look back.  
  
*Pop quiz, hotshot,* Jim thought ruefully. *You said you weren't sure if you could get past this.  
You said you could try again. You've said a lot of things, now what do you really want?*  
  
("The Sentinel thing . . . It's more than just a research project. It's about friendship. I just didn't  
get it before.")  
  
The ashes of Blair's research cooling in the fireplace radiated quiet heat against his skin.  
  
Blair pulled open the door and suddenly Jim found himself standing by the door, watching his  
Guide walk away.   
  
"Simon--!" he called out trying to catch his friend's attention. Blair halted and turned in the  
hallway to regard him silently, waiting for his message. "Simon called a while ago. He wants to  
see us at the station tomorrow."  
  
"Us?"  
  
The decision was so much easier than any he'd ever made. *Us. It's that simple.* Jim nodded.  
"Yeah."  
  
Blair looked down at his feet. "Then . . . I guess I'll see you at the station."  
  
"Ten o'clock?"  
  
Blair looked up and nodded. "Ten o'clock. Good night, Jim."  
  
"Night, Chief."  
  
Jim stayed in his open doorway watching and then listening as Blair descended the stairs slowly.  
  
***  
  
Returning to the bullpen was like stepping into a dream. Jim stood beside him against all odds,  
despite last night's conversation. People were congratulating him on his dissertation, asking about  
his hair, hoping he felt better, wondering if he was coming back to work with them permanently.   
Jack had gone to do a day of sightseeing, wisely knowing when to leave things well enough alone  
and when to press. If it hadn't been for Simon's timely bellow Blair would have wondered just  
what rabbit hole he had fallen into.  
  
"SANDBURG! MY OFFICE!"  
  
Out of habit he looked at Jim and Jim towards him. Last night hung between them, not exactly  
the ending Blair had thought it had been, perhaps not an ending at all. *Maybe a crucible,* Blair  
wondered absently, part of his mind working on that idea the rest watching his friend. Ellison  
nodded and watched as Sandburg headed off towards the captain's office before returning to his  
own hay stack of paperwork that now stood where his desk had once been.  
  
"Close the door," Simon motioned from behind his desk. "Take a seat. Congratulations again."   
  
"Thanks." Blair sat, waiting, wondering why Simon had called him in here. It was not to offer his  
well wishes on his dissertation, that he knew. He was no longer an observer, holding his pass  
much longer than was allowed. Three years was not 90 days, not by a long shot. It couldn't be  
police business. The captain of Major Crimes had come to his hospital room shortly after Jim had  
left and asked for his pass and after a quick "Get Well" had left. It wasn't the happiest of  
memories.  
  
"Look, Sandburg . . ."  
  
"Yeah?"   
  
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and took a steadying breath, trying to  
figure out how to broach the subject. "Did Jim tell you about the Chung case?"he asked.  
  
"He mentioned it. It's Joel's, right?"  
  
The captain nodded. "There are some ties to Rainier, to one Brad Ventriss."  
  
Sandburg offered him a tight grin that looked more like a grimace. "Well isn't that a surprise," he  
muttered.  
  
*Just get it over with,* Banks ordered himself. "Look kid, we're in the middle of an investigation  
that leads to Ventriss and his father Norman, CEO of Questspace. Your past . . . involvement  
with Major Crimes is making it difficult for us to investigate the university connection. There are  
records of you going through the computers about a claim of rape by one Jill Gordon. They're  
throwing all sorts of shit at us. They're claiming you used your position as observer to start a  
personal vendetta against Ventriss and are threatening to sue."  
  
Blair stood suddenly. "That's bull shit, I'd never--!"  
  
"Sandburg, this case has been stalling for a good 10 days. One of our leads, Connie Roberts, left  
the country last night. I've got all sorts of people breathing down my neck over this. I want you  
to cool your principles for a couple of days and retract your academic petition against the punk so  
we can just do our jobs." There. He'd said it. He'd done once again what his superiors had  
insisted he do: first take the kid's pass, now order him to retract his statement. *God, sometimes I  
hate this job.*  
  
Blair's eyes were sharp, his voice controlled but icy. "Y'know they fired me at Rainier over this.  
It's a good thing I was never *officially* working for you otherwise I think I'd be in the same boat  
now."  
  
"Dammit Sandburg!" Simon stood. "They'll drag your name through the mud and the department  
with it. I've been trying to get you a consultant position with Major Crimes. I can't do that unless  
you stop acting so damn stubborn."  
  
"My name is already worthless. Why do you think I lost my teaching position, huh?" Blair asked,  
not backing down for an instant. "You think I just quit?"  
  
Simon blinked. "They *fired* you?"  
  
"Welcome to the real world, Simon," Blair said, sarcasm evident.  
  
Banks sighed. "Look, would you just listen? This is politics, you can't fight this."  
  
"Like hell I can't. I don't care what the authority says. I don't care how much money or lawyers  
that son-of-a-bitch has. I'm *not* retracting it!" He punctuated his words by slapping his hand  
down on the captain's desk. "He can sue me if he wants but I'm not doing it. So your case is a  
little harder, so what? You could always point out the obvious such as the fact I was in *San  
Diego* when the case first broke, that you pulled my pass days before this even began. Ever  
think of that?"  
  
"What about Ellison, huh? You're going to throw away this chance to work with Jim?"  
  
There was a long moment of silence as Sandburg glared at Simon. "That is none of your  
goddamn business, Captain," he said frostily.  
  
"What about the Gordon files then? How do I explain a civilian using our system for personal  
reasons, Sandburg?" Banks demanded.  
  
"What about them? She was raped and then paid off. Last time I heard that was still something  
of a crime," he spat bitterly.  
  
Simon fumed from behind his desk. "This is murder, Sandburg, much more than a copied  
homework assignment."  
  
"A copied homework assignment is academic fraud, Captain. It can ruin your life to be caught.   
No school will take you, no profession will hire you. It follows you worse than a prison record.   
Plagiarism is like *the* sin for academics. To say you're a fraud, you might as well admit to  
practicing witchcraft in old Salem, you're just as dead." Blair shook his head and reined in his  
anger. It wasn't Simon's fault about the pressure from above, but that didn't mean he'd move his  
ground. "I am *not* retracting my petition."  
  
With that Blair turned and threw open the office door and left just as violently, heading for the  
break room. Through his now open doorway Simon caught the stares of his detectives and  
assistants, the whole room silent observers in a drama they no doubt had heard much of. Ellison  
stood by his desk, eyes fixed first on Blair as he passed, then on Simon. Banks nodded and tiredly  
motioned for him to enter.  
  
"Now look Jim, I told you about this beforehand--" Simon began.  
  
"And I told you it was a fucked up idea," Jim finished, closing the door behind him, voice  
surprisingly level and unangered. "The investigation ties to Ventriss happened when Blair was  
down in San Diego with no Cascade contact. Tell that to those damn lawyers. I told you not to  
try this sir," he reminded his captain cooly.  
  
"I was trying to help," Banks retorted sharply.  
  
Jim leaned against the conference table and nodded calmly. "Oh I know, sir. Trust me, Blair's  
tried to help and screwed up. I've tried to help and I screwed up almost as bad as you, sir."  
  
Simon sat back in his chair. "Almost, huh?"  
  
"Well, I wasn't stupid enough to ask Blair to go against his principles. I did just about everything  
else, but I didn't do *that.*" Jim stressed, shifting in his seat. "He takes--took," he amended "his  
job as a teacher very seriously."  
  
Banks lifted Sandburg's rather large personnel file and waved it like a flag. "You'd think after  
three years here and his military history he'd realize some times you just have to go with the flow,"  
he grumbled.  
  
Jim smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Captain, with all due respect, Sandburg has  
*never* gone with the flow."  
  
Simon sighed and set the file down. "Well, we've asked Norman Ventriss and Henry Nadine here  
with their charming offspring, to present the evidence of Brad using Connie Roberts to steal from  
his father's own company. I'd like your help with it Jim, if you're up to it."  
  
The detective knew what Banks was asking for. Listen in, use your senses. "Yes sir."  
  
***  
  
*It's one of those days and I'm not even working with Jim any more!* Blair thought ruefully as he  
watched Brad and Suzanne escape by chopper, courtesy of their fathers.   
  
Jim was yelling at Suzanne's father and there were cops swarming all over the place, but the two  
thieves turned murderers were already airborne and not likely to land until they hit Canada.  
  
"Dammit. You are not getting away," Blair hissed under his breathe. Ventriss had gotten away  
with everything up to murder and now he was trying to do that as well. Scanning the area,  
Sandburg caught sight of another helicopter, unmanned at the moment. "Shit. Why did it have to  
be a helicopter?" he muttered as he swung himself up into the pilot's seat and grabbed the  
headphones.  
  
"You okay?" a voice asked over his shoulder, causing Blair to nearly jump out of his skin. He  
turned and saw Jim climbing into the seat behind him, concern for his Guide and eagerness for the  
hunt competing for dominance on his face.  
  
Blair pulled on headphones. "Just strap yourself in!" he yelled as he started up the bird. *Fly  
now, freak later,* he ordered himself fiercely.  
  
"Hey! That's private property!" a man yelled as he came running up to the chopper, ducking his  
head in precaution as the blades began to whip around faster and faster.  
  
"Then get in and copilot!" Blair yelled back. The man needed no second urging and took his seat  
just as they lifted off, beginning their pursuit.  
  
The copilot pointed out at the horizon. "He's probably trying to use the canyon as cover."  
  
"Chief, let's keep them in sight," Jim said over the noise of the blades. "When we get over a clear  
area, we'll try and force them down. "  
  
They dodged the other chopper's tail, in and around the canyon, trying to keep them in view.  
"He's gonna head for the ravine," Sandburg announced as he doggedly followed the escaping  
suspects, gripping the controls so tightly his knuckles were white, trying to keep calm. *This is  
not Iraq, this is not Iraq.*  
  
"I lost visual," the co-pilot called.  
  
Jim leaned forward between their seats, eyes scanning the sky and the landscape. "Something's  
not right. Come on. Where are you?" he murmured, and then suddenly, "There he is!"  
  
"Man, look out!" the copilot yelled.  
  
The other helicopter was bearing down on them, pulling aside at the last minute causing the whole  
craft to rock.  
  
"Hang on!" Blair cried as he fought with the controls. "Oh, God," he breathed, trying to calm  
his heart that pounded almost painfully in his chest. *Calm down, calm down! We're not going to  
crash! You know what to do!*  
  
A hand grabbed hold of his shoulder, squeezing tight, and Sandburg had to wonder how much of  
his panic Jim was picking up. "Chief! Wha-- are we going to crash?"   
  
"We're caught in his rotor wash," Blair explained tightly, steadying the craft after a tense moment.   
  
"Chief?" Ellison pressed worriedly.  
  
Blair nodded quickly and swallowed. "All right, all right. I'm good. I'm cool." He turned the  
chopper around and once again they searched for sight of their suspects.  
  
"Lost them again," said the co-pilot.  
  
"Where the hell did he go?" Blair asked, dividing his attention between flying and looking.  
  
"I can see their ride," Jim said, eyes focusing off in the distance, pupils dilating as he zoomed in  
close. "They're not on board. He must have dropped them. Move out over the water. They could  
be on a boat."  
  
Banking the craft, Blair flew out over the water, the boat clearly visible to those even not gifted  
with Sentinel sight.   
  
Jim fiddled with the controls on the loudspeaker and finding the right knob, hailed the fleeing  
suspects. "This is the Cascade Police Department. Heave to and shut off your engine!"   
  
The boat went faster.  
  
"Any plans or are we gonna buzz them?" Blair asked as he spared a moment to glance behind him  
to see what Jim was up to.  
  
Jim offered him a quick grin as he hung on to the side of the helicopter and leaned out over the  
edge. "Think runaway stagecoach."  
  
"Are you nuts?!" Sandburg roared. "That means jumping!"  
  
"Right." The detective edged forward and gauged the distance towards the boat.  
  
Blair shook his head. "Fucking crazy."   
  
"Right."  
  
*Stupid Sentinel! I mean, there's chasing and then there's chasing! Why does this always  
involve jumping?* Blair thought sourly. "What if they swerve and you miss, huh? That leaves  
me."  
  
Jim spared a moment of his concentration on his prey to offer his partner a grin. "Right."   
  
The anthropologist paled. "Don't miss."  
  
"See if you can get right over them. I'm sure you've done this before, Lieutenant," Ellison teased  
as Blair brought them to hover over the rapidly moving water craft.  
  
"Don't remind me." Blair tried to keep the helicopter right above the boat even as Jim slid out the  
door and hung onto the side. "You better make it, Jim, cause I am *not* jumping, man!" He  
yelled at his friend.  
  
But Jim was. With a leap he let go of the side of the helicopter and fell towards the boat. The  
craft swerved in the water and Jim hit the edge of the craft, hanging on with his hands. Brad,  
grabbing the nearest weapon, advanced on the Sentinel.  
  
Cursing under his breathe as he flew after the still speeding boat, Blair focused on both flying and  
Ellison. Jim had knocked Ventriss into the water. Brad refused to be helped back on the boat,  
choosing to swim for it instead.  
  
*That jerk just doesn't know when to quit,* Blair groused, bringing the chopper around to follow  
the escaping murderer. "Take the stick," he yelled to the copilot.  
  
"You too?" the man asked in astonishment.  
  
Blair nodded as he eased over to the door, pulling off his headphones. "Me too."  
Hanging out over the water, he stared down at the long drop. *Water and heights. Someone  
hates me.* "What am I doing? What am I doing? Jim, I am going to kill you for this," he  
announced in a calm voice, hoping that his friend heard him. "Stay with him. Down lower," he  
called to the pilot.  
  
"You've got it."  
  
"Lower!"  
  
"I'm working on it."  
  
The chopper dropped another couple of feet in altitude. *Too high, too high.* "Can't you get any  
lower?!"  
  
"Jump!"  
  
*Easy for you to say!* Taking a deep breath and sending up a quick prayer just in case, he let go  
of the chopper and   
  
Fell . . .  
  
Fell . . .  
  
Fell . .   
  
  
. . . on top of Brad Ventriss.  
  
Cocking back one fist, he grabbed a hold of the boy by the scruff of the neck as he splashed,  
struggled, swore, and kicked at Sandburg. "Hey loser!" he yelled, getting the boy's attention. "If  
you noticed, I'm not in class today! I hope you don't file a grievance!"   
  
It felt so good punctuating those words with a well placed fist.  
  
Having taken out the captain of the boat and Jim subdued Suzanne. He scanned the water and  
caught sight of two flailing figures in the water, one very familiar. "Shit. SANDBURG!" He  
yelled. He turned the craft quickly around and went back for the two men. Pulling up beside the  
bobbing figures that spent as much time under the water as above it, he reached out with the hook  
and with his hands and grabbed both men, dragging and helping them back into the boat. "Get  
out of there! Get out of there!" Ellison flung Brad Ventriss over by his partner in crime, a  
sodden pathetic bundle sporting a split lip, and no doubt in a few hours a spectacular black eye.   
"YOU! SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!" he roared as the boy made an attempt to rise. The  
detective wheeled around and faced his Guide. "And YOU--" Blair was soaking, sitting on the  
deck, sputtering and coughing, bedraggled and looking very much as he did one dreadful morning  
outside Hargrove Hall. Jim clenched his fists in fury, words, even thoughts abandoning him in his  
anger. *How could he . . . Is he crazy?! I know I said . . But I didn't think he would just-- He  
just--!* "You just- you! ARG!"  
  
Wordlessly, radiating enough anger to keep his suspects docile and quiet, he steered the boat back  
towards land and the waiting police.  
  
Simon and Joel watched from the shore, both Norman Ventriss and Harry Nadine handcuffed and  
even now being placed in squad cars. "Jim!" Simon called as Ellison cut the motor. "Good job  
detective."  
  
"Not now, sir." Jim brushed him off hurriedly as he helped Sandburg onto dry land. "You!" he  
barked, pointing at a hapless officer. "Don't just stand there! Get me a blanket. Can't you see  
this man's wet?" He led his Guide over to a somewhat calm spot amid the chaos of the cops  
milling about and pressed him to sit sideways on the back seat of Simon's sedan, feet on the  
ground. He gave only a passing thought to dripping water on the car's interior, but Blair shakily  
protested. "Sandburg, sit down. Now!"  
  
"Jim, have you mirandarized them?" Simon yelled from behind him. Ellison turned to reply when  
he saw an officer with a blanket walking quickly towards Brad Ventriss who was being  
manhandled off the boat.  
  
"No, no, no! Not for *him.*" He grabbed the uniformed cop and unburdened him forcefully of  
his blanket. "Give me that!" He turned back to his shivering Guide and urged him to stand for a  
moment to drape the thick cloth around his shoulders.  
  
"Ellison!" Banks roared again.  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
Banks hesitated at the sound of that reply, even though he wanted to continue to yell, because  
that is what captains do after all, (specially when their detectives won't listen and get their cars  
filled with water stains,) he wasn't about to outdo that animalistic yowl. There was definitely  
something in Ellison's tone that told him not to press. "Uh . . ."  
  
"I'm busy sir, ask Joel!" he snapped, not turning around "C'mon, Chief," he murmured in a softer  
tone, rubbing excess water from his friend's shortened hair.  
  
From underneath the blanket that was vigorously toweling him dry Blair's voice rose in protest.  
"J-Jim, man, cut it o-out--"  
  
"Quiet," Jim growled.  
  
Simon threw up his hands and turned back to the arrests going on around him, leaving Sentinel  
and Guide alone. *But that doesn't mean they won't pay the cleaning bill for the interior of my  
car,* he vowed silently. "I have fallen into the Sandburg zone," he muttered to himself as he  
brought out his handcuffs and snapped them around Brad Ventriss's wrists and began to lead him  
to a waiting squad car. "I try to keep out of it. I don't go looking for this, but it *finds* me.   
What am I doing wrong?"  
  
"I want my lawyer. I demand my lawyer!" the boy yelled. "This is inhuman treatment! I'm wet!   
I'll sue. That hippie bastard hit me!"  
  
"Shut-up," Simon barked. "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be  
used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one,  
one will be . . ."   
  
Jack's jeep pulled up and he jumped out, avoiding those officer setting up a police line, and tagged  
after Captain Banks. Simon had just slammed the door on Ventriss before turning to find the  
colonel in his face.  
  
"I thought you were sightseeing."  
  
Jack shrugged, tugging down his baseball cap. "It was on the news."  
  
Simon glanced over the area and for the first time noted the camera crews and trucks that had set  
up on the edge of the water behind the police line, filming and yelling for interviews like vultures  
descending on the kill.  
  
Exasperated, but unable to do anything to keep them away, Banks turned and started searching  
for Taggart amid the chaos, Jack following.   
  
Joel, who had just pressed a sobbing Suzanne Nadine into her own transportation to lockup, came  
over to check on Ellison and Sandburg. "There's coffee," he offered, trying not to grin a the sight  
of Jim mothering a complaining Blair.  
  
"Thanks, Joel," Jim replied over his shoulder, hands still rubbing briskly over his Guide's blanket  
covered head. "Could you get some, please? Sandburg, would you hold still?"  
  
Blair reached up and yanked the cloth away from his head and the riot of half dried curls that it  
had covered. "I am n-not a f-four y-year old! J-just cool it Jim, I'm f-fine," he said teeth  
chattering.  
  
"FINE?! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jim yelled as he wrapped his partner tighter to  
keep him warm. *God, drowning, running around a jungle, a rescue mission, walking  
pneumonia, low grade temp, and now this?* "Do you have a death wish, Sandburg? Walking  
pneumonia and you jump into a fucking lake!?"  
  
Blair offered him a small smile. "Y-you said i-f-f-f you missed I h-had to j-jump. S-stagecoach,  
man-n. I learned f-from the b-b-best."  
  
Jim stood, jaw clenching. "God! You--!" He cut himself off quickly. *Now was not the time to  
yell at Sandburg,* he told himself fiercely. *Wait until he's well and then ream him for putting  
himself at risk. Again.*  
  
Megan came over and offered Jim another blanket. "Hey Jim, Sandy. Heard you got 'em."  
  
"Yep," Blair agreed. "We g-got our murderer," the one time observer reminded his Sentinel,  
shuddering.  
  
Jim muttered, couching back down again and new blanket in hand resuming his drying efforts.   
"He wasn't worth it."  
  
"You wanted him to g-get away? What ha-happened to jumping?" the anthropologist asked, eyes  
narrowing in suspicion. "You m-missed! You wanted him to escape?"  
  
"No! Just leave the Olympic diving for someone who isn't a recent drowning victim. Jesus!" he  
muttered. "I had it under control. If you'd been thinking you would have seen that and stayed in  
the chopper. Sometimes I wonder if your vaunted common sense is nothing more than a figment  
of your imagination! You get your doctorate and your brain goes out the window?"  
  
"Haven't got it yet-t." Blair replied. "And you s-should talk! You never wait for back-up, and  
you are always p-pulling stunts like this. May I remind you of someone, who shall remain  
nameless, jumping from an overpass onto a moving b-bus? Hanging onto an airborne helicopter?   
Going into a darkened fun house afer a killer when your eyesight was s-shot to hell and you  
couldn't hold onto your gun? What about when you were sick with a cold and I told you not to  
take the n-nasty medication, but nooooo! And what happened? You practically fell off a f-  
fucking train! And then who could forget--"  
  
"At least my dates don't try to kidnap me!" Jim retorted  
  
"Of course they don't. They're all t-trying to kill you instead!" Blair countered tartly.  
  
Megan watched, Jack and Simon coming over to join them. "Are they always like this?" O'Neill  
wondered with amusement. *And I thought Daniel and I were rough on each other.*  
  
"Yes," Simon growled. "It's a wonder I don't smoke more." Grumbling to himself, yet content  
that Ellison had the situation well in hand, he dug out a cigar and lit it. "Jumping out of  
helicopters . . . Not even an observer . . . how am I ever going to explain . . . "  
  
"Good to know," Jack said nodding to himself, hiding a smirk at Captain Banks' predicament.   
Having these two in his department would make anyone prematurely grey.. *Be careful!* a voice  
warned him. *They could be IN YOUR department, so to speak, if you convince them to take the  
general's offer.*  
  
Joel came over to the two of them and handed Ellison a steaming cup. "Here," the detective said,  
shoving the cup into his Guide's hands effectively ending their argument. "Shut up and drink your  
damn coffee, Chief."  
  
***  
  
Jack O'Neill could hear Blair's grumbling from the living room of the hotel penthouse suite.   
Ellison had manhandled his friend out of most of his clothes and into a hot shower. He then  
began digging through Jacobs' backpack for his medication, mumbling just as audibly as Blair  
about stupid bonehead stunts.  
  
Those two were a pair. And despite their careful avoidance of delving questions, he was almost  
certain that James Ellison was the Sentinel they were looking for, and Blair Jacob Sandburg was  
his companion and Guide.  
  
The colonel wasn't certain exactly what a Guide was, but if the large detective possessed even one  
of the heightened senses that Daniel had been harping on about, he was a military treasure. He  
was amazed the Army had ever let the man go.  
  
*And it's no wonder that they're so cautious about taking up the general's offer. I know I would  
be.*  
  
Jack sat down on one of the plush armchairs with a sigh. He'd received a page from Stargate  
Command. His time was almost up; General Hammond wanted him back within forty-eight hours  
with or without his objective accomplished.  
  
Perhaps it was time to show all his cards, Jack mused internally. *Oh come on! Like they're  
gonna believe anything you say about wormholes, Stargates, and Goa'uld, ancient civilizations  
and other galaxies. Hell, half the time I don't even believe it myself.*  
  
But then again, if Ellison could see and hear and smell, taste, and feel a hundred, perhaps even a  
thousand times better than an average human maybe it wasn't so improbable.   
  
*Full disclosure then, O'Neill? What about security risks?*  
  
General Hammond had authorized permission to tell these men the truth based on their military  
records. Blair could keep a secret. He'd been debriefed and signed a contract of silence about the  
mess he'd inadvertently gotten into when dropping off a unofficial group of American soldiers  
behind enemy lines, and been shot down and captured along with them for his troubles. And the  
detective was a Ranger, Covert Ops, Special Forces, he would understand secrecy too, a quarter  
of his life was probably classified already.  
  
They had the appropriate level of clearance, and the general had said to use his discretion.  
  
The shower went off and Jack could hear Blair exit the bathroom after a moment, picking up his  
good-natured argument with his friend as if it had never been interrupted. O'Neill wasn't blind to  
the fact that there was strain in that partnership over something that happened either directly  
before or after Jacobs had drowned, but he no longer had the luxury of waiting for the two men to  
sort it out. He stood, watching as first Ellison and then a few minutes later Blair, clothed in  
sweats, now entered the living room  
  
*Time to fess up.*  
  
The detective eyed him knowingly. "I guess this is the moment you cut the crap and tell us what  
you really want, huh?"  
  
Jack shrugged, taking his seat. "Something like that."  
  
Ellison urged an exasperated Sandburg to sit on the couch. Jim himself chose to stand behind the  
piece of furniture giving him plenty of necessary pacing room since Blair was too sick in Jim's  
estimation to fill his usual role.  
  
"Okay Jack, spill," Blair urged with good-humor.  
  
And Jack obliged. He told them about the alien threat to the planet, about the discovery of  
ancient technology left on earth after humans rebelled. He told them about the SGC, the Stargate  
Command program. He explained the seeding of humans across the galaxy, enslaved by the  
parasitic aliens. He quickly briefed them on the technology found on the planet labeled PR5-977,  
and how it could protect all human kind. He was brief, to the point, and didn't gloss over key  
facts, though he left out many of the details for sake of time.  
  
Jim and Blair's reactions were hardly surprising.  
  
"You expect us to believe you need our help on another *planet* to prevent future *alien  
invasion*?" Jim repeated incredulously.  
  
"You're on drugs, aren't you?" Blair declared conversationally.  
  
O'Neill scowled at his friend. "*No,* I'm not on drugs, and I don't really expect *you* to believe  
anything," he added to Ellison. "I expect you to come and see for yourself and trust me that you  
won't be forced to do anything or kept against your will. I think I've proved that *I'm* at least  
trustworthy after the whole kidnaping thing." Jack leaned forward, lacing his hands together,  
trying to appear nonchalant in the face of disbelief. "But all this means nothing unless you are a  
Watchman and Guide pair, or Sentinel, or whatever." He eyed both men carefully. "Are you?"  
  
Jim's cold blue gaze never flinched, Blair's face was impassive, and Jack was impressed. "I  
noticed," he began quietly "that you heard Blair and I talking from the shower that first morning."   
Jim remained stone faced; O'Neill directed his next comment to Blair. "*You* whispered to him  
under your breath at your defense and he answered as if he heard you clearly. Your master thesis  
said--"  
  
"What does that prove?" Sandburg scoffed, suddenly agitated for some reason. Jim seemed  
uncomfortable at the mention of Blair's research. Jack had the feeling he was missing something  
important. "Lots of people have really strong senses, it's documented, I helped document it. *No  
one* has all five. There is a reason why I wrote about police subcultures instead of Sentinels; it  
was because I couldn't *find* one, remember, Jack? After my master's degree I didn't know what  
to do because I couldn't continue my work without a Sentinel and they *weren't* any. You were  
there!" Blair said furiously. "You helped me get my head together after that dream fell through,  
remember?"  
  
O'Neill backed up mentally hearing the anger in Blair's tone. *I seem to have struck a nerve.* Jack  
was also quick to notice that Jim stared agape at his partner's words. Obviously Jacobs had not  
told Ellison much of anything about his life before they met, but that was a conversation the two  
friends would have to have at a later date.  
  
*Time to switch tracks; they won't come right out and admit anything and I don't blame them.*   
"Even if Ellison is not a Sentinel, and you haven't found one, that doesn't mean they don't exist.  
*I've* met a pair," Jack insisted, wanting to give the younger man another opportunity to  
continue his life's work. The colonel remembered all to well how Blair had slowly fallen apart as  
his search for a Sentinel failed. His dissertation proposal was rejected; the driving momentum of  
his search was the only thing that rekindled his will to live, to rejoin the human race after the  
Army. *I can give it back to him, though,* Jack thought. *I can give him the chance to really  
meet a live Sentinel, *if* they're telling the truth and Ellison is just a guy with really good ears.*   
"You can take me up on my other offer, Blair, work with the Stargate program. Now that you  
know the truth, know that you have a chance to study a real Sentinel, you can reconsider. The  
offer is still out there," Jack said.  
  
Now the detective was grinding his teeth. *Oops,* Jack winced. *I guess Blair didn't tell Ellison  
about that either.*  
  
"What other offer?" Jim growled.  
  
Blair tiredly sighed and closed his eyes. "Jack's CO authorized him to offer me a place working at  
his base even if Jack's Sentinel hunt didn't pan out. I told him no, so stop snarling, okay?" He  
opened his eyes and looked at Jack who was staring at him in confusion and Blair didn't blame  
him. Jack knew of his long obsession with finding a real live Sentinel. To not jump at the chance  
now must have the man thinking he was crazy. "I don't do Sentinel research any more," he  
explained quietly.  
  
Bewildered, O'Neill decided to let the matter drop. Ellison looked . . . well, Jack couldn't tell  
whether the man was mad enough to punch holes through concrete, miserably guilty, or even  
ecstatic because of that frozen, emotionless look. Blair, on the other hand, looked liked he'd just  
run over his own puppy.  
  
Ellison cleared his throat tentatively in the lull. "If you know of a pair on another planet, why  
would come here in the first place?"  
  
Jack ran a hand through his slivering hair. "Because of some dumb tribal rules. They won't help  
anyone outside their planet, their tribe, whatever! If we want to protect ourselves, we have to  
have our own pair. Some sort of tradition or something." Blair was nodding slowly, no doubt in  
anthropological understanding so reminiscent of Daniel that Jack suddenly missed his articulate  
friend. *He* would know what to say. Daniel, who hated the Goa'uld, had charmed three of them  
when they had visited their base for treaty talks. *Well, maybe charmed wasn't the right word for  
what happened. Maybe defanged is better.* "Look, I understand that you'd want to keep this a  
secret, especially after the whole kidnaping thing, but if *I* think you're the real thing so will NID  
or any other Black Ops group. People fought to take you back from us; you don't do that unless  
you have something to hide."  
  
Sandburg shifted uneasily in his seat and fought the urge to look at his partner for direction. Jack  
had a point, a really good point. *God, how worse can this get? I can't even rescue Jim without  
drawing more attention to him,* Blair thought morosely.   
  
"If you help SG-1 retrieve this technology you are officially part of the Stargate program even if  
you choose never to go on another mission. No one will touch you, no CIA knocking at your  
door, nothing," Jack reminded them.  
  
"But we'll be under your CO's command. He could order us to do anything, order us to be  
dissected," Jim argued placing his hands on the back of the couch right behind his partner.  
  
"You'd be in the same category as Teal'c, untouchable," the colonel promised.  
  
"Who?" both men asked in confusion.  
  
*Oh, why not? Go ahead and tell them.* "Teal'c," he repeated the name slowly. "He's a Jaffa.   
He's . . . kind of human; his people were genetically engineered to sever the Goa'uld, the aliens  
we're fighting," he clarified at their blank looks. "He's on my team. He can leave at any time. He  
has a family on a safe planet, a son and a wife. No one is allowed to dissect him."  
  
"A human genetically engineered by aliens," Jim echoed condescendingly. "How convincing."  
  
"And no one has dissected him *yet.* What if this General Hammond of yours is replaced? What  
if there's a new president and he decides differently?" Blair pointed out.  
  
"Jacobs, for cryin' out loud . . ." Jack sighed, letting his frustrations go. The kid was only trying  
to take care of his friend. "I know this sounds crazy, but about a year ago there were three huge  
ships up there," he gestured above him "ready to exterminate and re-enslave this planet. We  
barely, *barely* managed to stop them. They're under treaty not to attack us again as long as  
they can keep a leash on our technological development, but it is only a matter of time before they  
break it. We know it; they know it. The people on PR5-997 have a defense against Goa'uld  
planetary attack and they are willing to share it with our Watchman and Guide, no one else. If  
you two are what SGC is looking for, we need your help."  
  
Silence descended and for several long moments it stretched out to fill the hotel room. Finally,  
Blair stood. "I'm tired. I think I'll turn in early."  
  
Jim nodded, the two men's eyes meeting in silent communication. "We have to go in to the  
station tomorrow and give our statements, Chief. You want me to pick you up around 9?"  
  
Sandburg nodded, yawning. "Sounds good. What about you, Jack?"  
  
"I have an 11 o'clock flight out and two open ended tickets to Colorado. Just think about it," he  
offered. *Well, I guess that's that. I've done my bit. Not gonna press when I damn well know  
what they'd be risking if they are what everyone thinks they are.*  
  
"A late breakfast then," Blair decided. "Night, Jack. Good night Jim."  
  
A chorus of *good nights* followed the anthropologist to his darkened room.  
  
There was really nothing else to say.  
  
***  
  
The thin leather fold landed with a faint slap on the conference table. Blair picked it up gingerly  
and flipped up the cover to reveal a gold shield. He looked up at Simon. "What is this?" he asked  
in astonishment.  
  
Smugly, Banks bit down on his cigar, glad to have finally got one over on the anthropologist. "A  
badge, Sandburg. I think you'd be familiar with that after three years," he said as if talking to a  
child.  
  
Sandburg rolled his eyes at the tone. "You want *me* to be a detective?"  
  
"It pays better than consultant," Simon pointed out, gripping the back of his chair with two hands.   
"More permanent. More fitting. The brass is now very happy to have a doctor, who is fluent in  
so many languages with a shining military record, on the team. A doctor who just happened to  
write a brilliant police dissertation that several publications are asking to print for you, not to  
mention various other law enforcement agencies such as the FBI, the State Troopers, hell, even  
the National Guard want to use in their training." He turned his chair slightly and sat down,  
picking up a pile of well typed and documented request forms. Blair was intimately familiar with  
those; the police department was a bureaucracy in an of itself when it came to paperwork.   
  
"The Police Academy wants you to teach a seminar on partnership and police procedure," Simon  
continued, flipping through the pile, reading off the headings to the slightly stunned young man.   
"The bomb squad wanted you to do a class on dealing with the stress and tension of their job  
since it seems you've been taking classes with Joel's permission on bomb location and  
disarmament, something which you failed to mention to *me.*" The captain eyed the  
anthropologist sharply, not at all happy about being left out of the loop on this and making damn  
sure the kid knew it. "Vice wants to use you on undercover operations officially now, since you  
seemed to have helped with a bust at a party about six months ago, another thing I was not  
informed about and I doubt Jim knew either. Public relations wants you. The Victims Advocacy  
Unit wants you for all the volunteer time and reorganization you did for their group. The K-9  
unit says you're great with the animals and wants you to go along on all their school assembly  
days like you did last fall. You've been very busy, and as a result, you are one popular man Doctor  
Sandburg."  
  
Blair fidgeted, slightly flustered that he'd been caught integrating himself so completely into a  
society he was to be studying. "What about Ventriss?" he asked carefully.  
  
"They've made a complete 180 degree turnaround on that. They realize when they've made a  
mistake," Simons said.  
  
"And actions speak louder than apologies, huh?" Blair murmured as he fingered the badge,  
running over the words engraved upon it. "I'd have to be a cadet, though. What about time on  
patrol?" he asked suddenly.  
  
Simon waved his cigar. "Not needed. You update your marksman certification that you  
convinced one Detective Rafe to sign for you, yet another police related activity you failed to tell  
me about," He glared at Sandburg, and the kid had the decency to look embarrassed which was  
enough for Banks, "and you're in as a detective. I've heard there is a significant line waiting to be  
your partner if Ellison still hasn't gotten his head out of his ass," he added with a smile.   
  
Blair merely blinked, stunned. Yesterday he'd been ordered into this office and been offered a  
consultant position if and only if he'd retracted a petition against Brad Ventriss. Now he'd been  
invited into the captain's office and offered a permanent place as a detective, a gold shield, the  
respect of a group of men and women he had high regard and friendship for, and a official  
partnership with one James Ellison.   
  
For once in his life he didn't know what to say.  
  
Simon took pity on him. Leaning forward on his desk and lacing his hands together, Banks' voice  
became slightly less gruff. "Sandburg . . . Blair" the large man amended. "I want you working  
with Jim. Ellison's opinion is not an issue. No man or woman has ever been able to put up with  
him, and I want it officially taken care of rather than have a loose canon around my department.  
On a more personal level, Jim's my friend and you've made sure that this Sentinel thing hasn't  
killed him and . . . I like that," he admitted. "I like the way things were. Do you understand?"  
  
Blair nodded, stunned.  
  
Simon bit down hard on his cigar, and grunted his approval. "Good. And from now on when you  
branch out into other areas of the P.D. I want to know about it. Clear?" he barked.  
  
Finding his tongue at last, Blair stared out at the bullpen and then back to the badge in his hands.  
"I won't partner with Jim if he doesn't want me. We still haven't-- haven't made any permanent  
decisions. And then there's Jack . . ." The colonel had left after one last breakfast, leaving the  
hotel room paid for through the next week, two innocuous airline tickets on the coffee table.   
Conversation over waffles consisted of whether hockey or basketball was the better sport.  
  
Simon stood, face serious. He wouldn't rush this. The last thing he ever wanted to see again was  
the two of them, Sentinel and Guide, self-destructing. Finding Blair face down in that fountain  
was enough to give him a heart attack, or that could just be the all cigars he'd been smoking  
because of the two of them, he didn't know. All Banks did know was that if Blair Sandburg was  
going to work for the Cascade Police department he didn't give a damn how much work the man  
had done for other departments in the city. Blair was James Ellison's partner, member of Major  
Crimes, and that's where he would damn well stay. But he didn't say that. All he said was "Fine,  
take the time you need."   
  
"Yes, sir," Blair replied with a smile, taking the offered hand before him. "Thank you, sir."  
  
Simon clapped the young man lightly on the back, mindful of his health. "Now that, Sandburg, is  
what I like to hear. Sir! Keep it up and you'll be promoted."  
  
***  
  
Jim looked up from his smaller hay stack of paperwork that stood approximately where his desk  
once resided, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. Watching Simon and Blair walk out  
of Banks' office, the captain's arm around Blair, both men laughing, left him wondering just why  
the hell he hadn't listened in. He'd always eavesdropped on Blair's conversations with Simon  
before unless the kid had been adamant about it beforehand. But lately, he'd kept his distance.   
Now he, like most of the bemused crowd of detectives in the bullpen, all wanted to know what  
was up.   
  
"What did Simon have to say?" Ellison queried as casually as he could as Blair strolled over  
towards Jim's personal paperwork hill. A thin leather fold landed gently on the case report in front  
of him.   
  
Gently, Jim flipped it open. He looked up at Blair who was watching him intently, arms crossed.  
"Detective?" he asked in amazement. Simon had mentioned a consultant position in a phone  
message if The Powers That Be got Sandburg's cooperation on the Ventriss case, but Jim had  
never expected a shield.  
  
Blair shrugged, a cautious grin lighting his face. "I don't even have to go to the Academy except  
when they want me to teach a class for them."  
  
Stunned, Jim gaped like a fish before he controlled himself. "That's . . . congratulations, Chief."   
He abandoned the write-up of yesterday's activities he was in the middle of and grabbed his  
jacket. It was close enough to lunch to take his friend out to celebrate. Technically he wasn't  
even on duty. Technically. "Y'know, I was thinking," he began cautiously.  
  
Blair shot him a quick look before glancing away. *Here it comes,* he thought fatalistically, dully.   
*He's had enough, can't risk it again. He's changed his mind, doesn't want me for his partner.   
And I can't blame him.* "About?" Blair asked quietly.  
  
"About O'Neill's sales pitch, about immunity. I mean," Jim continued as he handed Blair the  
shield and they headed towards the elevator, not oblivious to Sandburg's sudden change of mood..   
"Your master's thesis and Brackett are still out there somewhere."  
  
Sandburg ducked his head, a slightly less inefficient method of hiding now that he was bereft of  
his long curls. "Yeah."  
  
"And he seems to be telling the truth. I listened to his heart, watched him. He's either on drugs  
or he's telling the truth. I think we can trust him." They pushed their way out into the hall,  
waving and greeting people as they left. "Maybe we should head out to Colorado," he said  
tentatively, casting sidelong glances at his Guide, trying to judge his reaction and failing. "Do  
some hiking, some fishing. I mean, we do have those free tickets. It would be a shame to waste  
them."  
  
Blair looked up at him for a instant. "We?"  
  
Jim shrugged, trying to play it cool, but inside he was bouncing up and down, excited. *Well,  
maybe not bouncing, that's more Blair's thing.* "It would mean leaving Cascade for a while," he  
continued carefully, as if they really were discussing vacation plans. For them that meant one of  
them throwing the idea out and both of them dancing around it, never coming right out and  
*saying* they wanted the other person along, but somehow hinting at it nevertheless. A complex  
dance of two people eternally unsure of just how much they were friends, roommates, brothers,  
and how much they were researcher, subject, and detective and temporary observer. *But not any  
more,* Jim told himself, fiercely proud on behalf of his Guide. *No more dissertation. No more  
ride-along. He doesn't even have to go to the Academy!* Inwardly, Jim beamed on behalf of his  
friend, but on the outside he was cool, really. "I think maybe we both need some time away from  
this place. You'll have to see about someone taking care of your stuff for a while, though."  
  
The elevator doors opened. Blair took a deep breath, entered and pushed the garage level,  
reeling, replaying the last words in his head just to make sure he'd heard correctly. He blinked  
once, twice. *I'm dreaming. I must be running a temperature,* he thought, stunned. *Play  
along, it's a nice dream.* "Okay," he said slowly.  
  
Jim had to fight to keep from punching the air and yelling "YES." He settled for a brief nod of his  
head. "After all, with just one mission I'll be hands off to all secret organizations in America for  
the rest of my life."  
  
"They could be lying about that," Blair put in darkly, guilt heavy in his voice.   
  
Jim couldn't help himself. He may get angry at Sandburg for doing some boneheaded things, but  
he didn't like to see the kid suffer, especially not *now,* now that things were headed in the right  
direction. Her reached out and grabbed the younger man by the scruff of the neck and shook him  
gently. Blair's heart rate calmed; he didn't like elevators. "And they could not," Jim reminded him.  
*Damn. Now I'm the optimist! Talk about role reversals.* "The world at stake kind of thing just  
might be literal. Hell, even the *aliens* might be literal."  
Blair shrugged, secretly enjoying the familiar weight of the hand on his neck. "True," he allowed  
"but they could be lying about that and the whole alien thing."  
  
"Well, I couldn't let *you* go *alone,*" Jim remarked with dramatic shock in his voice. "One  
mistake and there goes the solar system. And *I* couldn't go alone because I'd probably zone on  
the smell of the first alien I mean and then *zap!* Sentinel stain on the wall."  
  
A tentative smile at the teasing words tugged at Blair's lips, before reality intruded. "Megan," the  
anthropologist began, daring a quick glance at his partner. "Megan might not want to keep my  
boxes in her living room much longer and Joel might need his garage unblocked by the Volvo."  
  
Jim stuffed both hands in his pockets and watched as the elevator descended, trying to be casual  
as he offered. "You could-- you could store them at the loft."  
  
Blue eyes bored into him suddenly. "Would that be a problem?"  
  
"No. I've got the space."  
  
Blair nodded. "Okay." A bounce "Okay." A slight smile as he fingered the badge in his hands.   
"This wasn't what I thought I'd be doing after I got my doctorate," he confessed warmly.  
  
"But jumping in lakes was?" Jim asked pointedly.  
  
His Guide sighed and rolled his eyes. The elevator doors opened onto the garage. "You're not  
going to forget that are you?"  
  
They began walking towards Jim's truck. "Y'know, when you said you'd flown Apaches in Desert  
Storm I thought you were bluffing."  
  
Blair stopped and stared after his friend. "You heard that?" he asked incredulously.  
  
Jim tapped his ear and fished out his keys. "Sentinel senses, remember, Chief?"  
  
"Like I could forget, but over the helicopter?" Jim unlocked the door and opening it, reached  
across the cab and opened the passenger side. "Your senses had only been on line, what? A  
week?" Blair whistled under his breath as he opened the door and got in. "Pretty cool."   
  
Jim shrugged, somehow proud like a big brother who's little brother had just complimented him  
on a touchdown. Before, such a statement would have been uncomfortable, a reminder of why  
Blair was with him: to study him, a reminder of his freakish nature. No more. "I just thought you  
were bluffing that's all."  
  
Sandburg snorted in exasperation and disbelief. "You were hanging out of a helicopter with a  
militant lunatic attached to your leg. I thought everyone back in the bullpen had been executed on  
my very first day there. It wasn't the time to bluff. Poker is the time to bluff. With Naomi it's  
downright necessary to bluff."  
  
The key found the ignition and the engine thrummed to life. "But not with me hanging out of a  
helicopter," Jim clarified, deadpan.  
  
Blair smiled secretively, slipping on his seatbelt. "Like Jack taught me, never bet what you're not  
willing to loose."   
  
end  
  
Series to be continued in Part 5 which may take a while due to Real Life circumstances but it IS  
coming. a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com  
  
For more information on the Theban Mapping Project go to http://www.kv5.com/intro.html 


End file.
